The figment is the same as the sadness sometimes.
Wild gold and dark red. The color of snow under a streetlamp.
Or of smoke pluming from a house
under a white sky in the morning. The color
of a queen. I try to keep her, even while she is leaving
and even after I know she has left. I shout,
“Are you there, are you even there?” meaning God
but also Liliana. I want to ask her
which is worse: dying
or being dead. And then I can see her floating away
as down a hill of ice. With her she has one half
of my whole being. She holds me high above her head
and I wave to myself like a flag.
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