This is part two (you can read Part I: Love is here).
By Francis Scudellari
slips through, skipping over hairline scratches
etched by fitful nudges. The crooned once-so
simple and soulful, become fragile when
poised on wound-up platter. Needling him back,
that night their conversation broke to-be,
and was followed with a pause, he stretches
on each wobbly replaying. Then picked up,
he'll tuck it back in a wax-paper sleeve
corner-chopped to stash among discounted
bins of ballads rhyming her without him.