Love Letter

I study my hand
still on the paper, and resting
in a way I find foreign.
It is hard to look
at your own things
as unfamiliar.

Nothing makes me panic
like old love revisited.
In a dream he enters
again, making me
believe we are good.
This time we are good.

But reasons will betray you
when you turn your back,
will make you find
the strangest things nostalgic
and weighing a heavy cough
on your chest.

Like an angle these things appear
changed and new and
at times unrecognisable,
until they move from the page
to remind you.