Florence, March 1540.
They say this is the city of flowers – of fleur de lis, but the only ones you can see are dark purple, embroidered on flags and painted on coats of arms. This city is small and unhealthy: my Naples’ sun can’t reach these narrow streets.
But the people here, oh, they are so different, how they only live for art – their eyes can catch the deepest emotion and the darkest of thoughts and their bones must be made of marble sculptures. They've got oil paintings as skin and heavenly poems written all over their souls. That’s how they breathe, that's how they are never going to die.
And they say I don’t understand, because I’m a stranger and ice cold. I would like to go back home.
But I can't and I don't want to: Cosimo is here. My Cosimo. He is rowdy and strong and he is the only one for me. I was so scared, I couldn’t believe that arranged marriage could bring me any kind of tenderness, but when I saw him, it was as if I knew him, like I’ve been waiting for him breath after breath my whole life.
I may don't understand the way this city bleeds ink, and that's because my art is more like his letters when he is far away, the way my stomach hurt from laughing so hard with him and his strong hug: he is a work of art with a boy name and the only masterpiece I ever want to look at.
thank you so much for reading!
Juliet ~♥
