We Turned True

We turned true.
Twenty-two years, and I looked up.

Twenty-two years sat between us in the courtyard after ten.
We knew the bills, the school runs, how to forgive old friends.
Your ring lay in the brass dish. My screen lit my face.
One silver hair escaped your scarf.

Regarde-moi. I don't need us younger.
I need you here, at this table.
The courtyard lamps came on in a row.
I held my hand out, palm up.

We turned true. We didn't turn young.
Your ring came back out of the brass dish.
My hand found yours on the kitchen table.
Both phones face down. I came back to you.

Both face down.
We did not turn young; we turned true.
Both face down.
We turned true — not younger, true.

Six months of Fridays. The brass dish sits by my kettle.
Both phones go down at seven. Nobody has to ask.
Work was where you learned to leave.
Fixing was easier than being seen.
Last Friday you laughed at nothing. You did not check the time.

I paid every bill. I answered every call but one.
I had missed my wife for years
while sleeping inches from her skin.
I stopped laying your place at the table.
I was not waiting. I was deciding.
In the dark my hand goes where the phone used to be.

We turned true. We didn't turn young.
Your ring is back. The brass dish holds keys.
My hand finds yours on the kitchen table.
Every Friday. Phones down. I come back to you.

Two dark screens on the table. The lamps go out.
We turned true.