Memories form at the end of cold fingers,

Skin on skin, but not the same.

Where eyes once looked up defiant at heaven,

Below in retrospect, they now creep.

This is not how it was supposed to be.

This is not what he promised.

Being touched on the skin is as nothing

To being touched on the heart.

She pauses. She thinks.

The tears won’t lubricate her skin,

But their tactile passing is a reassure.

Tears won’t wash away the pain

But they will clear the view.


It starts with a lifting

Delicate touch

Needle caresses the vinyl

Kissing the gloss surface

Brushing notes from the static

Awakening dreams


The magic of words and music

Made real

Tracing the scores


Following the exactitude of creation


Unlike the digital

A reversal

Played from the inside out

Shiny coated

Zeros and ones

So wrong

So shrill

And treated as such

Inserted into case

False, silver hole


Deflowered by gripping clasps

We’ve lost our touch

Forced upon us

And even that is to go

In streams of audio

I want that delicate touch back

Just one more time