I don’t sing this way all day. I wait a while until the world falls asleep and imagine I’m swimming through houses underwater, the doors unlocked and unafraid. Eyes closed, humming lyrics to songs you’ve played that feel so far away. I hear your song, but it never hits the same. Because it used to be for parties, birthdays and late night drives. Summers and brothers who got drunk so they wouldn’t go mad. The sofa you’d sit in now sits alone. No one ever thinks to call the telephone. You’re like an actor in a film made of nightmares, yet the only people scared are the ones you left (us). The week before, you cleaned out your room. I’d never seen it look like that. Usually it’s all muddy trainers, boxers left on the bed and half-used packs of cigarettes. Then, it turned freshly-made bed, air freshener and photo frames as if you’d known all along - a stopwatch had started we never even knew existed. I’d been perfect for too long. Playing my own game of “How long can I keep this up for?”. A*s and sports trophies and Mum’s pleased smiles. You made it hard for me to become anyone else but, then I did. Then it was all late nights and waking up on buses with no people. Forgotten friends and bottles hidden under the bed. Then it was trips to see you sat across a table before you’d disappear behind bars. Then it was questions and calls home and “Are you alright, mate?”. Everyone and anyone but you. The nights were too short. The days too long. I needed a way to silence this song that’s been playing over and over since the day you first left, and it’s louder than my thoughts, inescapable in my head. When liquor fills my veins and I’m all out of lies, I sit in your room and ask you: brother, why?
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