I pretend, asking not to know. She bent lower over her armful of daisies. The everpresent sense of loss is neither sentimental nor metaphorical, unless it can be apprehended as a metaphor for itself. Before I lose it.
Light is the evidence of motion, the trace of gesture.
It was a small apartment in fact. She visited six months every year. A fan spins at the ceiling. The woman wearing shoes with cork soles enters. They are slippers, but she uses them as streetwear.