When the Record Ends — A Reflection Poem About Memory, Lost Love, and Letting Go

When the Record Ends

The record ended,
but I stayed in the chair.

I remembered you dancing,
one bare foot
keeping imperfect time.

In memory,
you never miss a turn.
You never say the thing
that makes me lower the music.

I have become good
at loving that woman.

The needle clicked.
The room waited.

Somewhere,
you are living a day
I know nothing about.

I lifted the needle,
put the record in its sleeve,
and let you have it.

About This Poem

Memory can edit a relationship until the person inside it becomes easier to love than the person who was actually there. The missed turns disappear. So do the conversations that interrupted the music.

The speaker recognizes that he has been holding a version of someone who no longer gets to change. Putting the record away is a small act of release: allowing her to have a day he cannot see, and accepting that remembering someone does not give him a claim on who she is now.