Her name is Lillia,* and I think
               I love her. Her name is Lillia and
   I think I love her and she smells like
             caramelized marshmallows with Honey
                                                           ­                Crisp apples.
                              Or was it Braeburn?
    She smells like Anjou pears and one
           day old rose petals (Scentimental, I think
            they’re called). Her soul would put feathers
                                                to shame with its lightness. When
                       she says my name I hear the crystal echo
        of wolves among the cliffs, and the ******
  of fluted champagne glasses swirling
                              merry contents. Her waist
                                   is like an hourglass where time
                          melts away in a daring drip of
                   not-quite-a-solid-but-is-sand-a-liquid-no-it’s-not.
         ­    Her name is Lillia and I don’t quite
                                      remember how I met her but it’s okay
             because I’m here and she’s here and
                                                             ­        the end justifies the means, right?
Her name is Lillia and I want her
                    to stay with me until all of the stars
    in this starry night become hers. Her name
                        is Lillia, and I am too transfixed by her
        hair swaying in the breeze to notice
                            that she has already walked
                *farther away than I could ever follow.