The Last of the Skipping Stones

Flat and round,
upon the ground,
the last of the skipping stones lie.

Others splash.
No skip, no dash.
They sink to the bottom and die.

Which to choose?
Without some grooves,
How does one tell them apart?

Not by size,
a solid guise,
but how it beats in it's heart.

Held in hand,
if pulse is bland,
disregard and go find a new.

On water,
sinks without her,
skipping heartbeats being with you.