It crackles like static, this love --
damaged, like vinyl records
attracting dust that sleeps inside grooves,
falling deeper into slumber
as the stylus passes over
and over

scratching, so I can’t settle
into the paralysed wind
and I’m waiting,
like an old set of speakers
on the wall, declining all requests
to overflow the room with it’s hums
until you un-press mute

and isn’t it funny
how I still sit at work, after all this time
and open stubborn carrier bags
on my checkout, charging the thin metal strip
of conveyer belt edges
to untouchable --
until a slip of a finger
brings another shock

and I blame you
for having such numb hands
that cannot peel the plastic apart.