Work Text:
September 7th, 1803
I still am amazed every day that this man and I are together, romantically. He makes me feel like an enternal muse under his eyes. His eyes are a wonder, you know. Deeper than any trench and more consuming than any feeling. He watches me like I am one of his fine treasures or lucious fur coats, and not just a mere servant. He says I don't have to continue my servant duties, offered to find me a job somewhere else in the city, or allow me to not work at all. But I have grown accustomed to this life and work, as well as quite fond of my fellow servants.
He's written many poems about me, each more intricate than the last. As our relationship has continued, and we learn more about each other, his poems only become more intimate. Some of them our just for our eyes, to be whispered in ears by candlelight, skin on skin. His skin is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen or touched. It's like silk, and of a such a pale, delicate color unbeknownst to me before I laid my eyes on him.
I had not thought of all the ways I might touch him, nor me. I am still surprised each day, when he presents me a new poem with words I've never heard, or touches me in ways that feel so biblical yet so unholy at the same time.
In short, I grow more in love with this man each day. He is like a spider web, intricate and delicate, and yet such a beautiful piece of art work that I could dissect for decades to come and still not know everything.
I look forward to attempting to expand my knowledge on my beloved Percy, the most perfect poem known to man.