Dear Sylvia,

Tell me where your ghost wanders so that I may find you again. In my mind, I see you – floating eternally, autumnally, blowing along in this October chill, swept along in a gust of flame-colored, fire-crackling leaves. You wail down the city streets of Boston, a desolate specter, though not wholly lonely. You inhabit the fields behind the new high school, the grassy paths, the library named after your old English teacher. I walked down Elmwood Road once, spurred by some desperate, disconsolate hope I’d find you lurking there, scribbling poems into flesh & swallowing down pills to keep the love down. You were my Lady Lazarus, my Ariel, and I am writing you my first mad girl’s lovesong. Sylvia, don’t stick your head in the oven. The stars are coming home tonight, and they are not the bright, cold pinpricks you’d once described but warm, friendly, twinkling in their congenial manner. They light the sky ablaze, and I keep them close to my heart so that I may find you again.

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