Vinyl player

There’s a vinyl player by my bed.

It’s broken.

The needle on it’s gone. A very delicate part.

Without it, it’s essentially useless.

I put in a record and it plays back static noise,

hearing faint melodies before skipping to the end.

It’s broken.

I should get rid of it.

Like the book beside my bed that I’ll never read.

Or the plush I hug to sleep every night.

I meant it when I said I don’t hold a lot of care for this life.

If it all ended tomorrow,

I’d be so relieved.

I’m living as the consequence of my failure.

But,

what little love I have to share,

I seem to be stuck on what’s left of you.

Things you gave me

once.

I look at them and like to get lost in the past.

Because I have nothing in the present to live for.

You’re an enigma to me.

And you always will be.

In a world where I know so little,

I hold to the little things I know.

Simple facts of life that

I can’t see changing.

And,

perhaps unfortunately,

I can’t seem to let you go.

For what little it’s worth,

I hope it brings you a bit of comfort to know

that you made my world when you came.

And

I’ll probably always keep that vinyl player,

even if it’s busted,

you’re just too important to me.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

Because I’m always fine.

And that’s…

fine.