New Jeanland

I found your handwriting
inside an old book.

Three words
in the margin.
Nothing important.
I knew the shape of your *r*
before I knew
what you had written.

And suddenly

your hand at the back of my neck,
your mouth against my ear,
my name low in your throat,
your chest against mine,
your shoes kicked off beside the bed.

the unbearable warmth
of being known
in a room with the door shut.

your voice from the kitchen,

come here,
come here,
come—

I closed the book.

Put it back
between two others.

The kettle was already boiling.