I look at my writing

& parts of my soul sigh

or cry or cringe, 

but some remind me 

that most feelings are finite,

all this built up emotional tar

     can be exhaled out.

It's hard to let go

when words are fossils in my mind,
but life is orchestrated by heartbeats,
Yours & those around you,
so eventually I do,
     let go.
But I 

replay conversations,

wander through my museum of texts

or in rarer cases look at my handwriting.

I read my frozen thoughts,

I note the letters that dip & bow to my feelings.

I find childish misunderstanding 

written impatiently 
& my expectations torn in frustration.

I read of empty goals 

or simply who I was before,

caring about the no longer relevant.

I find sharp & rigid points I tried to make

to cut at my smoother,

sadder expressions; 

the moon lit & lonely letters 
       only spoken by my fingertips.

I find love curling around vowels,

adding flourishes to the flat,

       uprooting & cracking cemented pain

& growing up & out of my eyes again. 

These emotions  

affectionately pull me back 

& are tattooed by my memory;

I write them only 
hoping to connect
      for their messages are infinite as long as they do.