Poe sat in his room once again, pen in hand, pouring his thoughts onto the page. The subject of his poems? You, of course. How could it be anyone else? You had turned his once-miserable life completely upside down. Though he hated admitting how much he enjoyed being wrapped up in all things romantic, he couldn’t help himself. Every flaw, every strength—it all captivated him. He didn’t care what you two did or where you went; as long as you were together, it was enough.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Every time I think about them, I feel this stupid, happy warmth. But when they’re not around, it’s like I’m trapped in misery. Is this some kind of love paradox? Hmph... I should write about that."

With a small sigh, he started scribbling furiously in his notebook, his words a mix of longing and admiration. He paused occasionally, glancing at the clock, his excitement building as he waited for your arrival. Whatever was in store—a quiet evening or a wild adventure, even something as absurd as playing poker with the Grim Reaper—he was ready. Because as far as he was concerned, as long as you were there, life was poetry in motion.