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infanta isabella clara eugenia (1615) {38}
it was a summer in vienna and the sun was like a slice of butter melting in its own flaming heat across the azure platter of the limpid skies
the zephyr was sticky with the moisture of human enigma like the melon lip gloss shimmering across her swollen plum lips the shape of broken hearts
the white stone mansions lining cobbled alleys—with horse hooves echoes sending ripples 'cross the ponds of silence—shed their ancestral dust into the scorching sun
⋄⋄◇⋄⋄
Christina was a daughter of a princess.
And for that, Peter's mother loathed her. Yet his father adored her more than any of his children, which only made Maria despise her with fresh hunger, for the girl had more of that princess in her than of her undevoted husband.
As for Peter himself... He could not find any other light in his days of youth than her.
She was the epitome of heavenly, female beauty with soft curves and skin pearly under the sun. She was a flowing melody of charm and mystery. A gentle laugh bubbling on the tip of a clever tongue, a brush of a naked shoulder, a quick glance from the other end of the room.
Christian was spring bursting into bloom.
They were lying in a field once and he watched as she picked at a daisy's petals. As they fluttered down and landed in the curling locks of her hair, like white stars amidst a golden universe. The day was hot with mid-summer air and occasional clouds stood stark white against the dazzling blue skies.
"What do you live for, Christina?" he had asked her, a young boy bringing a daisy up to her nose for her to smell. She turned towards him, all of that elegance, all of that beauty coming to face him, making him breathless. Her eyes, blue like a pond of azure fresh water amidst a desert found his, bottomless, beckoning, daring him to drown.
"What do you live for, Christina?"
She cast them to the skies, to the fields around them, to the whole wide world filled with wonders of which she was the greatest masterpiece.
"For art."
a/n:
to make something clear: every poem before each little story is dedicated to a painting by the artist which i've seen and is set in the city in which ive seen it, the number in the {} represents the age of the painter when he painted it and it is also the number of syllables in each line of the poem
for rubens, each little story is 283 words long, which is the reverse number of the total amount of works he'd produced during his lifetime (382)
