He kept careful track of his lies over the years–
descriptions on the wall of his room,
background of his computer,
mirror in the bathroom.  

Once, when he was a child.
Once in college.
He hadn’t realized how many he would need.  

Now, he has one left.
It sits at the back of his throat
and his voice comes out
a quiet whisper
around it.
His wife screams she can’t hear him
and leaves.  
Maybe if he had lied she would have stayed.  

He has the last lie engraved on his tombstone.
There is no one left to know it isn’t true.