She flickers in the glass—
a glitch of golden déjà vu,
The paint strokes—bright, wild yellow,
but no warmth leak through.
I sometimes reach
for her dimming leaves
that hum against my skin then disappear.
I pull back and smell
ash, when nothing’s charred.
There were twelve petals yesterday,
now, only eleven.
I wake up and count again.
Still eleven,
or maybe
none.
(I’m not sure if...
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