Merlin is like an apple…he bruises so easily. The way my fingers press into his resilient skin is like magic. The way he takes it, and loves it. I can see that he does. He's not the sweet, innocent boy everyone thinks he is. Only I know what meaning is held in those mischievous looks he gives. And I only I see what beauty is held in those shimmering eyes when they light up with the most fascinating whiskey-gold I have ever seen. I don't think he knows I know, and that's okay. He will tell me in his own time, and I will accept him in every way imaginable. All in good time. All in good time.
He dances. He's like a mantra I must say to myself over and over again. He is beauty. I have to memorize him; his every perfection, his every so-called flaw. Like the way his ears are just a little too big or the way his teeth are just a little too crooked. It is all sublime to me. I didn't notice that about his teeth until he bit me. It was like a bit you'd take from the juiciest peach, sloppy and delectable and raw. And he didn't know what it did to me, until later that night…but I digress. To me, Merlin is like the poetry of the gods. Mystical and magical and awe-inspiring. He's simple and so complex and the way he smiles brightens the darkest corners of my heart; the corners I never let anyone see, not even myself most of the time. But he makes me feel warm. Like bourbon sliding down my throat on a rainy winter night. And he is my weakness, as I know I am his.
Merlin is like an apple.