There’s a lot of things that I don’t want to say here;
at some point, like a triumph, our pain is held up
to the sky & to the heavens: “You couldn’t Stop Me,”
maybe, or
“You can Stop. Stop.”

Brandishing it like a golden medal, a trophy,
it is held up in the sun to let it glimmer across the
hills; around the rim of my glasses I can see
lies, ours,
and through the delicate green of the meadows
our tears flood the fields like rivers.
When will pain be honest,
when will it wither away from its cage
in flora; we are running along
that stream of salt like nymphs shrouded in
falsehoods.

We are running
like liars.