Cracks on the Groove

A needle drops, crackling

through dust-scratched silence,

a voice warped,

sings like it's breaking apart.

The sleeve, torn and faded,

holds stories I don’t know,

ghost melodies trapped

beneath scratches and time.

Sunlight catches motes

in the room’s still air,

while I press the edge,

feeling the cold vinyl spin.

Each pop is a crack,

a memory bent,

a tune half-heard through walls

that never meant to listen.

The music stretches thin,

a thread unraveling slow,

and I hold the moment,

frozen in static and spin.

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