The Art Of Questions Poem by alex haywood

A question is a fruit
ready to be picked
and release it's nectar
at the first bite
of a knowing mouth
or else fall off the tree
of it's own overripe weight
to lie unpicked
on the ground
of indifference

'How much do you love me? '
withered on the tree
'How much could you
have loved me? '
brimming with
missed opportunity
lies unpicked
both unfulfilled
but what an improvement
that inquiry
would have been
a heartbeat ago