a reprieve from shuffling

through the same tired cds

at local and limited stores

he instead brought me orchestras,

melodies otherwise unheard

treasures forever lying

in unheard aural darkness

his quest for rarity became mine

your conquest swirls on the turntable

its strains continuing against falling night

Paul is like the music, unseen

except one picture, and even it is fitting

that his hair is white, his eyes sparkle

similar to another who opened the doors

for me to this delicate art

across the continents and decades of age

I slip my hand inside his, friends against time

from the separating chasm I whisper a prayer

that he might not yet fade from life