She remembers that the kiss tasted like salt.
Tears flow downwards, victims of gravity like everything else, and so when Loki kissed her she tasted salt, despair passed thoughtlessly from his lips to hers, returning the same gift because her eyes were traitorously wet too.
(It's what drowning would taste like, she assumes.)
Sylvie bites her lip to stop herself crying, to avoid reliving the loss. Inevitably, she bites too hard and she bleeds. It tastes like a metal blade against a lover's throat and – because nature can be just as cruel as nurture – it tastes, of course, like salt.