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You took the words.
I asked for them back.
You gave them back the first night.
They were wet with your tears.
The tears dried and you were then gone.

I gave them back to you the next night.
You slipped away with them.
You did not look back.
You are gone and so are the words.

I let you go the third night.
I threw you into the water that swept past me.
I felt you leave, float out to sea.
I smiled, a frail cup catching the water falling down my face.

Salty like the water now taking you away from me.

I don’t think of you.
I only wish I could.
You are dead. To me you are gone.
The words are gone. Lost.
I have an idea of what they said.
Just an idea.

Ideas dry up. They lose grip.
Words slip slowly into the ground.
I stand on them. I stomp them down.
They dig their way to China.
Far enough away so that I cannot hear them.

You took the words. I asked for them back.
You did not respond.
I allowed you to keep them I think.
The words are what you have now.
I have me. I have no words left for you.

If only I had torn or burned the words. Swept the ashes under the rug.
Laid on the rug and dreamt the words away.
Then rolled the rug up and given it to someone unknown to me. Someone stronger.

You are unquestionably gone.
I am still here.
Listening for the words.
Nothing.