Otis Redding at Midnight

The record pinwheels, trying to throw the needle off it’s back like a bull, but no one stops it from skipping through the last ruined lyric of “These Arms of Mine,” that were wanting to hold you back, and love you entirely, and selfishly and never have to watch through the dirty glass door, you and everything, follow the street toward far away—forever away from the needle in the grooves, worn thin by a memory that skips just as badly now as the arms that still burn from wanting to hold you one last time before they forgot how it feels completely and resonate abruptly into—

Otis Redding at Midnight

Chris Hubbard

New Jersey, United States

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Artist's Description

Listening to sad-beautiful music

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