For a long time
you came to the same place
whenever you needed something.

Patience.
Understanding.
Room for your anger
to empty itself.

You lowered the bucket
and I let it down.

Again.
And again.

There was always something
to bring back up.

Enough calm
to steady the moment.
Enough care
to keep things from breaking open.

Years of that.
The rope moving through my hands
until the fibers wore thin.

You never asked
how deep the well was
or what it cost
to keep drawing from it.

You only reached for the bucket
when you were thirsty.

Now when you drop it down
it hits stone.

The echo travels upward
through the dark.

And for the first time
you might hear it.

The sound of something
that gave for so long

there is nothing left
to draw.