Dear Brother,

I write to you in a letter of clichés,

Mostly because I'm not really sure what to do anymore.

Burnt thoughts, burried sins

I never knew how to talk to you.

Believe me, I've tried a thousand times,

at 7, a letter that was never sent

at 12, a text that was rewritten over and over

at 15, a single phone call,

at 16, not a word.

Because to a child, there was no such thing as fractions,

no, math wasn't so complicated,

there was not such things as halves.

you were not a half,

a whole was whole.

you were whole.

what an ugly word that is,

half.

I tell myself that someday, we will meet,

but I also wanted to stop lying to myself.

I know you have been through pains,

but I can not rewrite my history,

nor can you rewrite yours.

Resentment is a funny thing, though,

should I feel guilt for being the sibling with the perfect life?

Perhaps yes, perhaps no,

but until then, I'll write these poems with clichés,

a lyricist, King David to his Psalms,

Am I my brother's keeper? You know,

it's not you it's me, but I believe

Time heals all wounds, yet I guess

An apple doesn't fall far from the tree, would you just

read between the lines? 

 

And they all lived happily ever after.