Upward

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.