He learned to love on his knees, in the quiet behind the church where nettles burned and graves kept watch. He held your wounds like prayers, let your pain mark him as proof that he stayed. Everyone else called you trouble; Abel called you holy in the only way he knew, by bleeding without complaint. When you left, the nettles kept growing, and he remained, kneeling over empty ground, believing love was never meant to save him, only to be endured.