We shared a room growing up,
my brother and I, two identical twin
beds, side by side across the room,
a rug between us and three years of age
and experience, he the older and I,
“Mike’s little brother.” I expect we
talked some, sometimes, must have,
though I remember little of what we said,
just his voice across the room and his form
lying under the covers of his bed,
a black iron twin matching mine,
the two of us, but knowing he was there
and I wasn’t alone in the dark,
well, that was enough,
then.
Now, I live alone, lost in his silence.
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