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Backside pressed to the caramel carpet of the parlor floor.
The fuzz of the turntable spills like a waterfall.
As the guitar topples from the speakers,
I feel the vibrations and think
“this must be what it’s like in the womb.”
A pause in the record cues my ice cubes to shift then
clink to the bottom of the glass sending an echo
through the room and revealing its emptiness.
While Muddy Waters once again pours his emotions from the pressed vinyl,
I shift back to my own blues and that age old adage about love,
that distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Or is it, distance makes the heart grow bitter?
Distance makes the heart go wonder?
Originally Published in: "The Voices Project"
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