She was grateful for the morning sunlight, the warmth on her arms, lessening the heartbreak tinged agitation.
She lamented over her happier days, her lost happy days that now seem to chide her.
She dreamily remembers them: wonders why she gave up so easily...(she knows the reasons but won't accept her responsibility in the matter.)
She knows she is dense, contracted, but at the moment, she can do nothing about circumstances or her position, so tedious and yet of her own choosing.
She is grateful for the morning sunlight on her bare arms quieting her tired inner dirge.
She thinks to herself: Can anything feel more delightful than this warmth...can it alter what could have been, should have been...can it melt what is?
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