The Record Store
by Grant Morgan
I brush my fingers over the album covers
of music composed by people I will never know.
Then I hear you say ‘hello’.
Then I lift my head and see you with your new boy,
whom I know
has the worst taste in music.
I say ‘hello, how are you’.
And we talk a while before you leave again.
With my face bare,
I return to brushing my fingers over album covers.
Then I pause when I find the cover of a band,
you once told me you would never stop loving.