Dear Ghost,
Does the frigidity of near-January make you feel as seen as it does me? I walk down a hollow Fifth Avenue at 3AM with you, the streetlights casting you to dance by my side like the Fauns in Fantasia. The wind casts us in what could be an old Disney animation – every window a character. The doorways are jaws dropped with laughter for the single yellow cab, the only car on the Avenue, blazing through the green lights with its tail on fire. The piles of trash await the morning humming like grumpy, gray men. The faintest stars cue tiny bells in the film score as I tilt my head to the skinny strip of black sky above us.
We aren’t so far apart as we once were.
