It is brutal how this love of ours is treated by us,
a forsaken forest, a bird left to die.
Deserted in the middle of the road
with intersections, a step ahead means treachery,
a step behind is cowardice
its place marked as vice.
We watch it from the home of our fidelity,
tighten our fists, pull in the salt in our eyes,
hoping it will run away and hide.
But like a lump in the throat it will stick,
sick with the weight of our silence,
fall out and color the earth red,
until it can be born again, unabandoned.