Sometimes truth shoves you up against a wall and kisses you, like a boy. And your stomach drops to your knees and you catch your breath, because you weren't expecting it. And sometimes truth walks up to your door, and stands on the porch while you run around frantically downstairs getting dressed, doing your hair. Truth waits until you come to the door, breathless.
You and truth have a got a way of running in to each other. I guess it's a small city, and the truth is big, it always has been. Sometimes you wonder how something so big, so universal, so inevitable as truth fits so quietly in your hand. You wonder how it fits its hands around your waist. You wonder how it speaks, why you listen, because truth has never been loud.
And mostly you wonder how truth got into your room, how truth entered your house in the first place. Don't you always forget to lock the back door? Now truth is sitting on your bed and truth's shoulders are so soft and eyes so blue it almost breaks your heart. It almost breaks your heart, truth does.
Sometimes truth holds you while you cry. Sometimes truth holds you while you cry not knowing that the reason you're crying is because of him. Sometimes truth grabs your hand, tucks your hair behind your ear, asks you to stay, not knowing that the truth shall set you free. Not knowing that the truth shall let you go.