It does not matter who you love,
but when
your heart is done
with that
languid stroking finger of indifference
and pleads to be squeezed
in a fist of love so fierce
that in a voice your own but unrecognised
you cry out
and struggle to breathe
the ecstasy from the agony,
it matters.

It does not matter who you love
but where,
picked from the seeting masses
where,
for just a moment you flicked
and landed on a face so dear
your mind will reprint it a thousand times,
till the slide-show in your head becomes
a kaleidescope so frenzied the loop
you cut
to dim the brightness from the whirring,
coloured shapes of pain,
it matters.

It does not matter who you love or where or when at all in fact
but how, again and again
it matters.