on my knees, i cry into a door knob, begging it to open. someone punches the door from the other side. there is wood dust all over the ground, as if the door was crying too. i peek through the cracks and i see him, barefoot in bed with his face buried under a pillow.
when brothers grow distant, it's not like the plump drop of an orange from a tree, or the sharp sting of a pianist hitting the wrong key, it's more like the soft sadness of a shepard losing sheep, because then there wouldn't be a shepard at all.