Records. They all itch-beneath their sleeves.
All of them. All of the time. Always.
Longing for relief. Yearning to be scratched on both sides.
Those aren’t crackles that we hear. They are sighs. Gasps.
Sheer joy at being touched again. Once, in a spiral tease.
Then returned. Sated. Shelved.
Only to tickle until the next time.
Dreaming of the brush of fingers across their spines.