Missing

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

together,

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,

music,

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.