When by truth you mean
a house on the hill.
The people in the house are three,
sometimes friends come over.
The days in the house, the hours,
they are memories you never tell me about.
But if we had met then,
if we had played outside
when streets were still safe
and children could play outside
for hours before dinner was ready,
before having to walk down the hill with
your voice carrying me home
a thought of you showing on my lips.
I would be true for you then.