Your back is to me right now. I think you are content. Your spine is handsome. It is long and it gently curves up and forward at your neck, holding your head, which faces the book in your lap. The stems of your glasses punctuate your head above the(more) ears with small hazel dots, but you are otherwise bare.
It is not morning now. It is later than that, and I came into the room expecting that you would be gone, and instead I see you never left. I think you plan on staying.
I didn't know if I was jealous, if I was capable of feeling the envy that snaps so many people back and forth in manic waves. I felt indifferent to your attentions when you spent the evening engrossed in someone else's words at a party last week, but your attention to those words makes me envy the writer. What is this text?
In print, would I be different? Would you feel more compelled by what I say if I were typeset? This is what we had in common: we each travelled with books, and we traded, writing our email addresses on the inside covers so that maybe things would be returned one day. We exchanged notes, but the books themselves were our real love letters. I didn't care much for the book you gave me, but I read it very carefully, to better understand you and how you might feel about me. You said you did the same, but my book was Thurber, full of loud noise and antics. You took that, too, to be an extension of my psyche. It seemed disappointing then, but I think it prepared you for all of this.
You read soberly. I don't know anyone who turns pages like you.