She always smoked in bed, using the soap dish from the bathroom as an ashtray. I was glad it could get some use as something other than do-not-touch-decoration.

“Are you writing?” She asked.

“Yes”

“That makes me happy”

“It makes me happy too”

“Share it already”

“It’s too simple”

She groaned and tore the little book of paper from my hands and read the poem.

What did I do to make you breath through a filter?
Whisper it in my ear
I’ll do it again

She grinned then started nibbling my ear.