I don’t trust words. No, that’s not true. I trust the shape of the mouths that spoke them when words still sang the song of my heart. I love the way language bends but I’m lost now it doesn’t point in the direction I thought it would follow, a crooked signpost on a winding lane. I hate the meaning words were given by a logic I don’t understand. I want to believe words as they form on the tongue while they still feel like something I could hold in my hands instead of sounds made of abstract ideas; a sunrise-sunset that blankets a brittle world of blue and green in soft and silky gold. Words are liars with their pretty smiles and curling edges. Sometimes, the words that are spoken stretch and coil until they arrive at my ears in a different shape. Sometimes the words reach me exactly as they were meant. Sometimes that’s worse.