There is a truth of you,
whether you know
the secret slant of it,
or don’t, whether or not
you lie to yourself, or to them,
to the people who are supposed
to know it already.
There is a truth of you
in your walk
and in the set of your shoulders.
In your reaction to rain.
In your favorites.
In your way of dancing
on those rare times you dance.
There is a truth of you
and you can hear it
if you know its there,
and if you want to.
There is a truth of you
and you don’t have to prove it,
and you don’t have to know
or tell anyone.
In your voice when you’re alone.
In your tendencies.
In your penchant
for certain bits of life.
In the permanence
of you having lived.
There is a truth of you,
and it just is.
A simple fact of you
which is true
no matter what you do.
