Gazing into the past, memories blur and ripple. I can’t give you a face,but your voice comes back to me in surround sound. You loved to play me likethat, tonguing the notes,hammering staccatoand alluring caress,scaling between codas. Even with eyes open,dim reflections disrupted, harmonic vibes replay. You’re still hitting allthose right notes, baby–playing  from the inside out. I can’t escape your touch,that lazy baritone ,sliding under my skin like a needle hung upon grooves cut deep inan old vinyl record. ~Nara Malone This post was written in response to the Sunday Scribblings prompt: Reflect. Drop by to see what others wrote or to join the fun yourself. I did some…