Twenty-four

This is the year you turn
twenty-four;
the year you figure out
that
more
isn’t always
what we make it out
to be;
that sometime I wonder
if you ever think of me,
while lying in bed
a head full of stars
staring up at the
ceiling in the sky,

The year you learn that
you could fly
all this while
but had walked
instead,

But your feet have taken you
this far you feel
grounded — in
sanity is a crazy
thing to think that
we were born
of the same whom
that carried me,
after you
that we were
taught to love
by the same
heart that
broke mine.
And yet I find
the sound of
your voice like the
clarity
of windows
after rains,
windows
through the pain,
window
to twenty-four —
the year you figure out
that less may
sometimes
be more.

       – my brother turned twenty-four this year

 

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