Sometimes my potions don't work.
Sometimes your brother's ghost haunts our home.
He's a talkative little bugger.
Just wants to sit and discuss philosophy
over a cup of last weeks coffee.
He's a messy little fool of a ghoul.
Leaves me a puddle of memories
to be mopped from the hardwood floors.
I don't mind his conversation
but his mess is starting to leave a stain,
it's shaped like the birth mark on your neck
the one on the spot I use to kiss.
I'm starting to think I can see your face...
in the floor boards,
smudged into the grain.
He won't stop floating about my hair
going on tangents
about Nietzsche
and tragedy!
He's so rude that brother of yours,
soaring right back through the ceiling
rattling the dishes on his way out,
before I even get a word in!
My lips have started to bleed,
and bruise a mosaic of dull colors.
When he leaves, I get to lay with you.
Sprawled on the wet floor,
pressing my cheek next to yours,
I can hear you singing.
Inviting me to dance
into the darkness with you
Deep into the shadowy basement
you now call home.
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