Cracks in Sound

I’ve spun that old record, each crack tells a tale,

the needle catching light like a whisper of air.

Songs from my youth, they rise and they sail,

a warm hug of sound, wrapping soft in my chair.

The static crackles, a voice from the past,

a melody swells like a wave on the shore.

With every note played, I’m brought back at last,

to laughter and dances, to moments of more.

Yet the skips are reminders, of things left undone,

a ghost in the music, a friendship untrue.

But in these small moments, I still feel the sun,

as the vinyl keeps spinning, and the memories cue.