There is something about looking at a dead thing - it is pale, white, and devoid of everything that made its colour - it is like a biting chill that tears into your flesh. One looks at it with pity, if one did not know what it was when it was still alive. One looks at it with pain, if one was acquainted with it.
When I looked at her, I saw this pale, white thing - and even though I knew its colour once - now I see it dead. Our bond died like a careless roadkill. But I knew how this animal once trilled and I smile still.