we stood in line
with sweat on our necks
and songs in our bones.
she wore the band's tee
like a second skin—
black, worn,
and so goddamn beautiful.
she didn't say she wanted it.
but her eyes
were already singing.
she laughed when our hands
brushed near the record crates.
she talked about chords
like they were spells,
and i—
i just listened.
when they said
"last copy,"
they handed it to me.
and i felt her silence
like thunder.
so i gave it.
my favorite album.
my favorite fucking thing.
i said,
"take it."
and she said,
"but it's yours."
and i almost said,
"so are you."
but i didn't.
so she took the vinyl.
and i took the ache.
i could've waited
for next month's stock.
but not
for another