All I wanted
was to know your
soft footsteps were
climbing up the stairs
to my room again
in the morning
so we could chat.
Simple things
I suppose it seems,
but we were truly connected
to the point that
though I couldn’t hear you coming
I could always feel your energy
moving closer to me,
across carpet to wood floors
to carpet again,
and you always smiled
with awareness
when I turned around
in my chair
to meet your face
as you walked through
the doorway.

Ive never met
a pair of siblings
closer than you and I,
always finishing
each others sentences,
had our own language
which was mostly
knowing sighs
and intuitive glances
sprinkled with obscure
movie quotes
and lots of laughter.
I miss the excitement
you showed me
when I walked into a room,
arms outstretched for giant hugs,
made me always feel
so special and significant,
like I could make your day
just by being my crazy hot mess of a self,
no judgment or harshness
spat in my direction,
just all accepting and
unconditional loving,
and I felt the same way,
you changing my life
for the better,
with every moment spent
and even the rare moments apart
you were my conscious,
gentle and kind,
then coming back together
smoking cigarettes,
over tipping in restaurants
and booze joints,
toasting our dad
who we lost
many years before
with bourbon and tears
on back porches
across america,
swapping memories that triggered
other memories,
now forever lost
under the setting sun
a year after you died
and your ashes still
in my mother’s closet
because we couldn’t bare
the thought of letting them go.
We shared all the nuances
of existence with each other,
snarky jokes and plans for the future,
big travel plans and roaming lands,
news articles
on raging wars,
conspiracy theories,
contradicting philosophies,
deciphering propaganda,
language, and
how to ignore
the weight of the
capitalist mayhem
in the midst
of the struggle
of being artists
in a society
that only glorifies
the buying and spending
of goods no one needs.

And now
I only dreamt of snakes
and friends
becoming strangers
in the years
after you,
my dear brother,
died of the brain cancer
that no one
would talk about.
And though
I sat around fires
with groups of happy people,
all the ladies
averted my gaze
and went off into
the night laughing
and kissing each other
whilst I just tried
to put one breath
in front of another
and waited by the embers
until the sun came up
so I could
go away from here
with a shudder to the left
and a flask of whiskey
to the right,
because I refused
to force smiles
and fake happy
in the days
after my fallen brethren,
when death’s cold hands
rested on my shoulders
and gave me headaches
so bad
I couldn’t see the floor
beneath me,
but even though you didn’t believe,
I still swore I heard
angels singing
through the veil

of the dead.

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