Writing

Dear Anthony Bourdain 

somewhere between the time you died and the time you lived 

i found a part of myself in the words you spoke 

I try to meet the next

but it's not quite right

he doesn't make me laugh they way you made me laugh

he doesn't show his affection for me like  you do

he doesn't know me like you know me

ghosts of peo / ple hiding in this house / they grew up in and left / hiding under tables in clo / sets long thin men pale pe / ople dark people all hidden / separately in the same room / waiting for the seeker to finis / h counting endlessly endl

He can see kids glowing in the kitchen, 
Hands sticky with sweet gossip, 

Bright, beautiful little selves smudged by the window that he, 
A cracked old statue has broken his hands and fingers by banging on, 

A girl stood alone

on the edge of the world,

scared to fall,

but somehow she could not leave

Her heart pounding,

Her chest screaming,

I have this little balcony

On the second floor of my house

My big white house

With gold fixtures

In this town in sunny so cal