Here you are

writing words on my shoulders,

on the back of my cereal box

in the margins of my books


I pretended not to be curious about

what you would write next, and  

where you would write it 


until one morning, when you asked me to

write a word

for you


with dark ink 

in the palm of your right hand, 

I wrote four letters


you squeezed them tight:

your fingers, your eyes