Similar, and yet strange.
I would love you, if I was not so afraid.
I would hold you, if my arms were not covered in bruises
and old fractures and the scars
oh, the scars.
You told me "cut yourself, or I'll do it"
and I bled for you so many times.
I counted them once -- more than four dozen.
I wanted you to do things that you would never do.
I needed you to do things that you scorned,
refused,
regretted
after that moment when you slipped for just a second
and my lips touched
softly.
All my scars were formed for you.
I cannot feel them again
because there is no connection left
between living and dead,
between having been
and having nothing.
I miss you, my brother.
I miss the deep
the never
ended and
never ending
pain of needing you.