The evidence of his affection was so thick that it could be peeled off his skin if one tried hard enough; even a blind man could see it. But she was not blind, and so it hurt more to have eyes and watch, with those same eyes, as the love of her life loved another woman.
It sounded almost poetic, she thought. She had read somewhere, or maybe heard (she was not sure anymore), that love turned one into a poet. But she learned from watching Draven shamelessly vie for Levina's attention that heartbreak also turned one into a poet. In that moment, as her heart ached, from the pit of her stomach, a river of poems dipped in loss and pain flowed. And no one was to blame except for Levina.
