Sometimes, the words I need to use seem to be worn out from too much use. They aren't thick enough anymore; they don't have the breadth or the depth or the bottomless echoes that they should.
I'm sorry, for instance. What does that say? I am so sorry. Better? No, not really.
My insides are stripped out, hollow, stringy, and pithed. The ribs crumble, the lungs unexpectedly deflate. This lack, which I never expected, stretches out the skin and fills it with something heavy and hard to move.
No, better off with keeping I am so sorry and leaving the rest.
Ashley Taylor was a woman of magnificence. When she danced, she swung her arms and threw back her head, and she was a mad, glorious creature who ate the world with abandon. Her hands sliced up space and lavished it on everyone. She was beautiful and smart and full of warm, golden humour. The corners of her eyes squeezed into charming points when she smiled, and she always looked like she was about to say something either wicked, or delightful, or both.
She gave the kind of hugs that make you feel the entire day just got better. I will miss her.