You’re like talking to a bag of rocks—
still, unyielding,
each word I say ricochets off,
falling to the floor with a dull, hollow thud.

I try to reach you,
shaping my voice into silver threads,
casting them out like lifelines into a deep, stony well,
but they tangle,
knot themselves into silence
and find no echo,
no reflection of sound.

You’re like talking to a bag of rocks—
not cruel, not malicious,
just inert.
A mass of grit and weight,
all presence without participation,
all hearing without listening.

I sift through this heavy stillness,
hoping for a spark,
a glint of something sharp or alive,
but it’s just granite and gravel,
a stubborn collection of dust-perfected edges.

I wonder when you became this—
when warmth cooled to sediment,
when your soul folded itself into stone,
closed tight against the world like a fist.
Was it the years? The tears? Was it me?

You’re like talking to a bag of rocks,
and I am tired.
Tired of building bridges
to the immovable.
Tired of tossing words
into the abyss.

But still, I sit here,
trying,
persisting,
hoping that one of these stones
might shift—
just a little,
just enough
to let something grow.