venice bitch, lana del ray

VENICE,
ITALY.

the sun is ripe with joy, water rippling: hot to the touch, yet cool against the sweat-bathed forehead. it creates circles at her touch, the red of her nails—resembling cherries, soft and round and juicy—like a flame against the sea. bare arms feeling the winds awakening, its greeting blowing the faint hairs of brown upon her arm. once, she would have stopped it: commanded the wind to fleet, and then soar with it to olympus. she looks up to the sky.

things have changed, it seems.

wood prods her legs, which are bare to the world around her. caramel colouring, with the faint buzz of newly grown hair decorate the skin upon them, red heels strapped against her ankles. she looks towards it, almost forgetting the tattoo that slept upon her foot. ares. his name in cursive, with hearts littered around.

she was sure she'd meet him once more.

a wrap let her hair slumber. the sun upon her eyes shone like amber, vibrant and iridescent amongst the dulled yellows and reds of buildings surrounding. clouds greeted the sun in an orderly fashion. the wind lapped at her earrings, tickled her lashes and caressed the soft red of her lip. she squints now, a melancholy sigh escaping her lips. the man beside her feeds her a cherry, a smile pulling at his lips. it is her new lover—her mortal lover—who steers the boat. he is good to her.

but he will never compare to the one she loves the most.

he is yet to notice the tattoo upon her legs, the roses that decorated her neck, the nostalgia that slept within her eyes. he is yet to notice the sad smile that seemed permanent upon her face as she looks to the sky, the sun, the water or the paved streets.

they travel amongst the water in the streets of venice. he is good to her. she is grateful for him. but he will never be ares.

and that was what hurt the most.

she clutches the jewels that glitter against her skin in the sunlight. a ruby it is; a ruby, a sapphire and an emerald bright. her fingers mark the pattern of their keen edges, the swivels of calligraphy, words marked in a language that is now foreign to her. she does not remember the words at the tip of her tongue. she does not remember the vows she made in ancient greek.

blood is drawn. the edges, it seemed, were very keen—more sharp than she'd realised. she looks at him now, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. the blood is red. red, like a mortals. red, unlike a goddess'.

he sees it now, the writing that sleeps upon her ankle. "ares?" he asks, bewilderment splattered across his face. she sees his beauty: his eyes deep, brows thick, lips plump, skin like umber. he resembles ares too much.

she sighs again, that sad smile on her face as though it were irreplaceable. "just someone i knew." is all she says, clutching his hand. he feeds her another cherry. the waters bump against the wooden boat. the sun shines with sadness. she looks up to the sky.

she will meet him once again.