The dark of space coiled around her like a snake around its prey, strokes of a painting by Van Gogh becoming her hair as she looked upon the void of open space.
She was shining, rippling, her hands outstretched, claws of a beast prepared to strike. The sky rippled under her touch as did an avalanche when one yelled too loud, snow falling in white shrouds. She muddled the surface of her robes, the reflections of stars becoming blurry and spreading throughout the sky.
"Lucia," she murmured silently, like a whistle of wind on a clear day of August, but there were no trees to catch the sound. Her fingers glittered brightly of stars and shining CDs on their racks, waiting to be taken, for their stories to be sold.
"Lucia." Not that Lucia would come, for the stardust about her forbid it, as did Helios, his hair crackling with bright flames, of the brightest volcano erupting and becoming the ash of his robes.
Vega's sight was limited, so in response she ripped a hole in the painting, much to the chagrin of the artist, his face red with boiling rage. Through the window of distorted anger and loneliness, she peered into the depths of sparkling passion, furious and beautiful in nature.
The two had embraced, sketches of shading pencils on old papyrus right next to light pastels drawn upon heaven's azure. They really did not mix, not as a swirl of pastels and pencils, and the thought made the sun sparkle in her mind as her fanciful creatures basked in its warmth.
Though for her, Helios really was not drawn in pencil but in watercolors, swirling warmth that crackled and burnt fingers, despite that it should put itself out. How irresponsible of it.
Helios, painted like the Mona Lisa? No, no, it swirled like the mermaids swam in the sky, flowing beneath the surface. No, it was the watercolors.
Lucia should always be painted in pastels, stardust like moonlight attaching itself to sky, not that she needed it; but, of course, she had a fondness for the eerie glowing of just after a supper of cow and bread.
She supposed she, too, dressed in extravagance, but who could blame her? Strung across the air like a harp's melody were her eyes, and they had to be comforted by the birds with brightly colored yellow and red wings.
"Lucia." This time, she really didn't expect any reply.