I listen to the way you lie to me,
the voices in the windchill,
the lapping of long waves against a distant shore,
the wails of ghosts far from home,
and I think about it
about us;
about you;
about me.

What does it say
that I have missed every single opportunity I have ever been given
and directed so much anger--
so much bitterness
at myself
that I can only ever be tired?

I listen to to the wind in leaves,
the wailing of trees,
the moaning of old beams,
the sound of water dripping into a bowl,
and the answer.

I listen to the answer.
I listen to the answer.