SMOLDER

by Andrea Janov

We lie on my bedroom floor
              wedged
                             between the scattered       
       boxes waiting to be loaded 
into my car.

His hair falls
               against my face.

The shoddy recording   :             
             Phil’s nasal voice   :   crackles   :   hisses   :   pops                                     
                                       pressed into 7inches            
             of clear red vinyl                                     
                                 sparks our burn of memories.

Our breath mixes   :             
              with the        hum       
      leaking      from    the    speakers.  

We lie there        after
               the needle reaches the end
lifts   :   returns to its
       start.

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