I know the words I have polished like river stones in my mouth are wasted despite their roundness and the lovely burble they will make when rolled together on the bed of my tongue pushing past my teeth and then my lips only to tumble staccato and scatter wild between our feet on the kitchen floor and I will kneel to gather them all back and by the time I have them in my hand to offer again you will be gone because your ears were never tuned to this thrumming I hold for you who were never mine to speak to in the first place.