Fourth Person

"The better option." she quipped as she smothered French cheese on her baguette. In all her self confidence and nonchalance, she didn't quite know how much she would be missed in the coming weeks and months.

"Just friends." he confessed as he tossed a dart that buried itself in her chest, just off to the left of her heart. It wasn't enough to kill her, but the doctor said it would take 8 weeks to heal.

"I was just basking in all the genius." She remarked to her friends as she laid in the greener grass across Walden pond.

There's another character here; the recipient all of these statements.  With hands in her skirt pockets, she stands quiet in a lost road with hunched shoulders. What hurts her more than these words and the scenarios they are packaged in, is knowing that La Vita e Bella. She's a Swede writing Spanish poetry, and she never did quite have a chance in Italy. That leaves her with a heavy weight in her stomach and a dry taste in her mouth, because having a hope disappointed when there really was no hope to begin with is the hardest thing of all.

Now, she is simply stitching up the hurt and miss inside her. She shows her pain in the form of cheap poetry, so common it's as ubiquitous as a stubbed toe. She fills in the holes of her heart with streaks of rain against the smouldering sunset, making the sky look like inverted light rays.  Slowly, she straightens her spine and raises her chin an inch to look up from the dusty path on which she stands.

She looks up to find that God is standing there in front of her. Their eyes meet and a small smile starts on her face that almost reaches her eyes. She parts her dry lips and a whisper escapes them.

"Glory."

Shout Out to Shug.