How Much Does It Matter

You were not choosing 
the right words, being reticent 
for a seasoned yes. 

The hurts of intimate 
symphonies― don't bleed. 
Only scars were left in triangles. 

The chilled morality 
of summer stream, was eating 
away the banks of amnesties. 

It was a sublime touch 
of unseen fingers moving into 
the trees and sky of dark spaces. 

Days were slipping 
away. I cannot put my 
memories on flame. 

There were explosions 
on the crossroads.