She was an LP record in an iPod world,
a collector’s item posing in a tie-dye jacket,
a vintage album cover concealing
the scratches that blemished her surface:
the cracks that invited me from her skin to her soul.
She hid during midnight stereo sessions,
insisting she was only fit for some old Victrola.
But the sounds she would spin when I needled
her grooves sang to me in places the digital girls