I think we are gonna be friends

I’m stuck on you like a skipping record.
I run the race of life over the black mountainous surface
as fast as I can.
Then a thought of you comes along.
And I tumble and fall,
a mess of clothes, spittle, and hair,
rolling and rolling,
as your name echoes through the air,
floating through the room over and over again,
massaging the ears of the listener who sleeps lazily on his comfy-chair,
knowing he’ll have to get up and reset the record eventually.
But for now, he’s satisfied with just hearing your name.