There were a pittance of days she did things for herself.
She liked the way an orange could be peeled to its barest form, made each peel a journey to something.
She enjoyed knit sweaters pulled past her knuckles while barreling through wisping city winds.
She found much joy in closing her eyes among a crowd of strangers.
The mounted sky sheds opens above her. What a pleasure it would be to see and feel all at once.
These were human moments. Like the ones you read about in those poem books, those romance novels, those 500-paged atlases. They sat shallow and sweet in the valley of her tongue, a pinch of raw sugar.
She recoils as the taste fleets swiftly, melted away like each moment before last.