He's beautiful, I have already mentioned this to him
but I keep on insisting because I think it's not really clear for him yet
that his beauty is both inside and outside

I mean, apart from his noble heart
and niceness befitting of a prince;
apart from his ideas and his way of thinking, his strings of thoughs
that I love to follow and where I also love getting lost in;
apart from the beauty of his likes and loves
(because you are what you love, if after all love transforms you,
and thus I am he and he is I)
even if you took apart all of his being and essence
he would still be beautiful

because he is beautiful, no matter how you see him
although he sees himself and he is not content
he is beautiful in his signature brows
in his shoulders where I anchor and his fingers which I entwine with mine
he is beautiful from the wrinkles in his face and his combed hair
to his feet, wearing shoes two sizes bigger

he is beautiful, no matter how you see him
but he is on his most when he is honest,
when he shows himself weak: in his most pure and human state,
and that usually happens at night,
either with his mind a little blurred by a little alcohol
while his tongue runs and can't say anything but urgent truths,
dyed with that love that not even alcohol can erase;
either in my arms, moved by sweet whispers, his eyes releasing tears
that rise modestly like cotton
but, as they roll, have the shine of a gemstone;
or if not by early morning while we share a single bed,
naked and iluminated by the lights of my alarm clock

he is so beautiful when he lets you see him vulnerable
or he lets you see him in love
or he lets you see him without even noticing that you're seeing him:
he is so beautiful all the time
and he is not content

he tells me he is not content, when his arms hold me tight
and his chest seems sculped exclusively for my hands;
he is not content, my best kept secret,
the boy that looks cute and shy in front of everybody's eyes
and I know in so many different layers;
he is not content being so short and so pale
being that I could use the porcelain analogy to describe his skin,
but his porcelain was adorned with freckles, and marks, and moles
and I have never seen such fine, pretty, warm porcelain
(porcelain is cold and your arms are always warm)

and his dark hair contrasts with his light skin, and his eyes go along:
black lights, stars of Bethlehem that guide the way
to reach to his pink lips that, if you kiss,
you could swear you can find salvation
or a miracle; something strange happens because it's not normal to be moved by such great happiness,
and if his mouth is salvation, the touch of his hands is holy grace

he is not content when I could honor his body
and his spirit and mind,
when my mouth could paint masterpieces in his chest
because he doesn't see shape but I see colours
and I don't know if he believes if god is an artist
but if he doesn't see himself as art, it doesnt matter
since even so, art goes all over himself like a bindweed

since even so, when god said
"let there be light"
I'm almost sure that he was made.

I told you, I don't remember.
Why there's little clumps
of jasmine in my hands
or why I feel hollow all the time.

I told you, I don't remember.
Why I woke up alone in the grave yard.
Not knowing if it was
rain drops or tear tracks on my cheek.

Why there's mud stain and rusted flakes
on my favorite white dress
that can't seem to be gone.
No matter how many times I try to rinse it all away

You asked me where my brother was.
I said, "He's abroad."

I lied.

I don't remember the last time I saw my brother.

Nor the sound of his laughter.
The way he have dimples when he smiles
or the way his eyes would shine bright
every time someone mentioned his family

What I remember are
The weight of a pebble in my palms.
The way your throat will clog up, just like choking,
after sobbing and bleeding out your heart.

These days I wake up crying for something
I can't remember.

Though I do remember,
flashes of quick silver images.
How water can chill you down to the bones,
making your teeth chatter and your heart numb.

How it could fill up your lungs.
Making them heavy and cold
with fluid and guilt.
Drowning you down to the bottom.

Though I don't know how I remember that.
I have never drowned before.

I don't remember how my brother's room looked.
I don't remember where the bed was
nor was it tidy or messy.
I do remember the walls were light blue.

The same kind of blue, painted on frozen lifeless body.

I haven't been in his room for quite a while.
I tried knocking but my hands trembled.
Breathing becomes impossible.
I woke up curled up on the guest bathroom floor.

Though his face grew hazy in my mind.
Funny thing is,
I still remember his favorite book.

Of course I do, after all this time
we spent fighting over the book.
Although I can't seem to find it in the library, now.

Maybe my brother misplaced it.

There are pictures of him in our houses,
but my eyes seems to skip them entirely.
Cause all I see was his lips
being bluer than the sky.

I know he never had hypothermia before.

Today I woke up to
a tattered book on the kitchen table.
Soaked with water deep to its spine
picture peeling away.

The book is a copy of The Brother Lionheart,
His favorite book.

There's a black card on the table.
An invitation for a funeral
dating back to two weeks ago.

My brother would laugh at that.
He said that if he dies he wants his funeral to have an invitation.
"To cheer things up!"
He said with a grin I can't remember but know exist.

There's a sound of something shattering.

I woke up in my brother's bed.
His room was stripped bare,
naked with out all the posters and his existence.
There's a wilted bouquet of lilies
and jasmine in his room.

I told you, remember.
I don't have a brother.

even though i don't understand,
i've watched him love you hard.

i've felt Olympus shake and i've
created supernovas on his behalf,
steadied my arrows and called out to my galaxies-
but, consistently, he quells me quiet and it's always then that i see it-
the warrior he is demands he doesn't give up on a battle
and Ares has been chasing Aphrodite too long to set a better example and i
hate to say it
but it's alarmingly beautiful.

father may have made a star,
but that lionheart made you a sun.


i have long preached that perfection takes time,
that my mother has a love so pure and perfect set aside for her,
but her heart caught on you.

war is love and love is war -
she has weathered battles in your name and each time i try to end the fight,
lay the final blow
she quiets my furies
with a hand on my chest and music in my ears.

Apollo has been chasing dawn too long to teach the lesson of patience,
but you were her dawn and mornings aren't the same, anymore.

she sings songs of you at daybreak
and i hum songs of war.
she pretends she isn't missing her star.
i try not to miss the sun.