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.
