to sylvia plath, or, a confession

of the two sylvia
i love her more
but I didn’t cry
when she died
at your age
at least not until
i feel her breath
a night breeze
of the moon shine
a future
of re-memorization
a puppet
of tattered soul
swimming in
a sea of broken glass
a rabbit
of the magician
hiding in
a glimpse of childhood tricks
but I never want to
take away my life
or learn to live
at least not until
i fall in love with you