OUR SONG

Chance record on the radio

spins my head like a 45.

As memories strobe,

it’s not my bra and knickers on show

but emotions, pulsing in disco colours.

You carved yourself within me

deeper than grooves in vinyl.

Riffs play like your fingers on my spine,

until my heart is a drumbeat

in a deep, deep base;

the lyrics a French kiss in my mouth.

As the song plays on,

the needle jumps –

I start to remember pain

sharper than a diamond stylus,

endless rounds of arguments,

their heat warping the record.

All I hear now is static.