I have a bad habit of re-reading.
Those texts; the birthday cards; the love letters
It's something about visiting my thoughts
that almost makes me validate them
The way longer words connect,
and pointed words hit home.

Sometimes I write the feelings I don't understand
Closing my eyes to picture the grief and fear
Gulping back confusion
Because where I've ended up is getting more clear.
It may take years, but I return to the page
Of me and you
But really it's me, it's the dreams and the desires
The conscience, although mine's tired

The pages speak to me such that
I want to say, "I see"
The thing about re-reading those letters to you
is that the message, it's always been for me