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my brother, he stands at the threshold and he doesn't step into the room.
i don't blame him— my drink is a rich brown,
don't drown yourself in it, my brother had said the last time
and i'd thought, 'i'll drown if don't drink'
and i'm no angel but without these, i won't sleep;
i want to ask him, 'when she died, how did you—'
but then i'd have to say 'how did you deal when the love of your life died?'
but something tells me, even my smart brother doesn't have an answer for this.
my brother stands at the threshold as if
he senses my hunger that fills the room and i beg,
let me be dead, i cannot deal with this hunger.
years ago, when you were a little more than a stranger
i was told: you're not hungry because inside— you're already dead
but how did a dead man feel warmth blooming in his chest?
this emptiness that fills everything he touches when he grieves?
but angels make miracles, don't they?
so, to emptiness i pray, one more miracle— just one more.
but the only one that listened to my prayers is gone.
my brother lingers at the door,
he doesn't step in and the hunger in the room ripples.
his grief and my hunger— my grief and his helplessness,
when i finally say the words, it comes out like a prayer (a curse?)
'you know, hope was all that was left in pandora's box?
it was there with all the curses, doesn't it make hope a curse?
doesn't it mean— it means that hope is the biggest curse-
or since it's all that remains in the box,
doesn't it mean it's useless to hope— that it's—'
my brother, he was always the smart one
he steps into the room, the hunger cowers
he presses his hand over my right shoulder and
i sigh in relief. the right shoulder,
the one that doesn't—
he doesn't say a word.
he knows what i'm asking unlike his love,
mine might come back every time, you take a piece of me.
it goes on and on. so it goes.
i hope, i need you— a prayer cast into the sea.
why is it that when you step into a river, i'm the one that ends up drowning?
my brother steps away,
i down a drink, i drown and i drown.
'i've hugged death more than i touched him,'
i whisper and i watch my brother's grief ripple across the room
and turn my hunger into hopelessness.
we sit side by side. hoping and dreading a miracle,
since when was death ever a relief for us?