Words.

She was always about the little things. She didn't need grand gestures or bequeathed diamonds and sparkling trinkets. What mattered most to her was you meant what you said. Words that people give an illustration of lives and sometimes what we hide and the regret lingering on of all the tongues of unspoken narratives that never quite found the courage and candour to be heard. I am sorry seems to be the ones that are hard to find and replaced with something that just comes easily from a place of mixed emotions. Words given the wrong sounds don’t feel quite right.  
 
Words never went over her head they were digested and thought about some she kept, and the gossiping went straight to her rear end. She didn’t have time for the contradictions of oxymorons. They were a type of cruel kindness almost an off the cuff remark that found its mark as it was delivered with deceptive honestly and it’s met in silence. With aftershocks of what did you just say. These she found the hardest and wanted to throw them all away and let them fall into disarray. If you can’t find one word of genuineness. Why strain your vocal cords in spite disguised as nice do you really want to fight for the rest of your life.  
 
She was a walking vocabulary of all the people she had met a walking thesaurus of conversations of extraordinary vocabulary. Vowels nouns constants and adjectives, entwined into moments of sounds that held hands together and hearts to hearts and sometimes they flew you in a rocket to the moon. For her these were the jewels of the crown to be found in the mundane and every day. Punctuated by the utter subliminal surprises of the imagination. An art form woven from many different aspects and dialects of conversations all with their own unique perspectives. An abstract piece of art a composition of you and I and them all coloured in .