Move the Needle

My Beloved sits in chair, listening.
Nearby are discs, recorded.
Albums carefully placed to spin songs, funny, beautiful, dancing.
He moves the needle to its proper place, and the room sways with music.
Sometimes the song is interrupted by scratches deep, and the record skips, repeating scratch.
The room empties of melody. Sounds scrape with endless spinning.
My Beloved, he must make effort, to move needle. To reposition, allowing the room to sway once more.
I can get stuck in tracks rutted deep.
Life can spin endless with the scraping.
It's only when I am intentional. When I choose to move the needle.
To melody, sweet.
That I am right full. Of song.