You step into the large,
colorful windowed building.
The one you used to stand outside with her when you went on walks.
She explains to you how she goes there sometimes to talk to god.
You never really understood why.
Why she went there or
why she would believe god heard her.
But she did,
and you always admired her for it.
So two weeks,
two weeks after she left you,
maybe to go meet the god she had so much faith in,
oh how you wish that is true.
You walk into the colorful building of god.
Hesitatingly you walk up the center row,
surrounded by empty seats.
You build the courage to lift your eyes from your feet,
you look forward and see the black and white dressed god.
He meets your worried eyes.
But his face isn’t encouraging or helpful,
there is no softness or mercy.
His glare burnt with judgments,
his harsh eyes searing the flesh from your bones.
He goes to speak with his painfully upset pursed lips.
But instead you fall to your knees and cry.
After all the years of promising yourself,
swearing to yourself,
never to fall,
never to cry to a god,
you do anyways.
You had to,
you had to believe she was with him,
to believe she was truly happy.
Though,
even though god left you,
he was always,
will always be there for her.
So you look up at that black and white dressed god,
silhouetted by the light coming from one of the colored tile windows,
tears streaming from your eyes,
and you ask,
because you have to know,
“Tell me she's happy?
Just tell me she's happy?”.