I don’t like details,

When my mother left that day,

I didn’t ask my father why,

Or where she went, or when she would come back.

I let the quiet hold the pain,

And I didn’t need to know more.

To every word and every thought,

But I’d rather let them go,

Than live with truths I can’t handle.

I don’t like giving details,

Let people guess, let them see,

Let them make up their own stories,

From what they’ve heard or seen.

I don’t like details, the close, the near,

The way they try to make things clear.

I’d rather keep the edges blurred,

Where the lines are soft and undisturbed.

So when people ask, I let them guess,

What’s hidden inside, I won’t confess.

I don’t like details, just the dream,

Of what was lost and what could be.