His pen scribbled as his soft breathing echoed the room. Your poet boyfriend, August. You knew that he was writing a poem again. He wrote love poems, sad poems, happy poems, anything you could think of.

Once he finished, his pen clicked, signaling his finish. He smiled to himself at his poem.

August, a tall and handsome man your age, looked like someone you’d least expect to write poetry.

August set his notepad aside on a small coffee table. You tried getting a peek before he sat next to you, but the only words you could make out were “Her laugh, so intoxicating, a drug to me”.

“Hi. Sorry I didn’t greet you. How was work?” August asked, his arms wrapping around you.