I live for the delicate moments those brief instances of bliss. Some call them the simple things, God’s sweet freedoms, the touch of a snowflake on a chapped cheek, perhaps, a butterfly’s wing transparent against the sun. A perfect memory lost to time, we count them differently to life’s tedium. Delicacy can last until you blink, replace your book on its dusty shelf, or until your car enters the tunnel that blanks out a view. These are the things I speak of, and we all have many. For me, this moment was you, so delicate a creature as to break before I could hold your hand. I regret you being so delicate, or my being so clumsy.