Poems, Stories, And Unorganized Messes

Record Player

Again and again.
Back and fourth.
Like a pendalum on a grandfather clock,
Tic toc.
Late nights,
And highway lights.
Car seat beds,
And blinkers bright reds.
Sore knees, thighs,
Musky, dusky, colorless skies.
Seat warmers,
And the vibration of an active phone, texts to and fro.
Tear stained cheeks and pats on the back that mean nothing.
The pitter patter of rain is a lullaby only she can slumber to.
Again and again.
Back and fourth.
Like a broken record player, scratching and repeating the same song over and over and over.
But this song doesn't get old.
This song doesn't get heard too many times.
This is a song she's played since the day she decided to become more.
And it's a song she listens to every night, every time, every trip, every drive, every hope and dream.
Again and again.
Back and fourth.