100-word poem drabble (can be read as E/H)

Insomnia

At the corner of her bedside table, a stack of three novels,

covers never opened,

spines uncracked.

On top of the stack, her reading glasses,

with their glossy fuchsia frames,

arms unfolded,

like at any moment she might return and slip them on,

maybe settle down and read,

just like she always planned to.

Next to the stack, a mug of tea,

milky and sweet,

half empty,

the contents now cold.

In the air, her perfume,

top notes of peach,

base notes of her presence, his memories.

How can they call her body 'her remains' when all this is left?