Dates are a little like figs

The cracks that ran shy through the slick blades of grass,
never cutting our feet,
only shaving the edge off the night.

So, there's a bench dedicated to someone,
who isn't
or wasn't?
I should know for incidence but all I know is you.

Really,
the half-moon that hooked from your nose,
titled the evening with clear skies
coldness,
remaining close.

Oh, raking in the patriotism with every second more of you,
be my cliché?

Subtlety was never my strong-point.