The Romance Of A Record.

There is romance in a record store
Its the dusty smell and yellow faded covers, how you flip threw them causally, as a breeze in the afternoon on a hot Sunday.
We know we would never hang them up on the wall.
Hiding our secrets in book shelves behind psychedelic envelopes.
It’s not the way I gaze across the room, no it’s not the instant connection, or absently touching finger tips.
It’s underneath the vinyl, between grooves, read only by a stylus falling up and down across the frozen waves.
A stamp made in history by Edison, it’s stood, not of convenience or simplicity.
No this is where time and effort come in, for love doesn’t coast by, it’s whether your record will be placed upon my revolving platter, sending its vibrations down the path of metal wires to tone arm, and cartridge.
Will it form an electrical current creating that nostalgic scratchy sound bound to my heart?
Will it sing between our empty spaces filling up our silences?
A tale of souls wound together amongst vinyl.

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