The smell of bacon wafts through the house,

The sun rises in the east, far beyond reach.

The stairs voice their familiar creak,
as I stumble down them, sleepily.

A warm mug of coffee waits for me in the kitchen,

along with a long book to last me the day.

It’s raining outside, really pouring.

I light a fire in the living room,
and curl up,
like a cat on the carpet.

The fire floods me with warmth, and light
,
and I feel a simple sort of happiness.

I gently open the book,
the smell of ancient paper filling me with a sorrowful delight.

Soon, my family will awake,

and fill the house with the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

But for now, I am entranced in another life,

written many years ago.

Hours later, the first one to come down stairs,
is my brother,
wrapped in a fleece blanket,
 sleep filling his eyes.

We go out in the rain,

running for what seems like miles.

Out of breath, and soaked to the bone,

we are standing on a cliff looking down at The Ruins.

The sun shines bright through the clouds,

hovering, beautifully, above an unending ocean.

The rain slows to a drizzle,
we begin to feel the cold sinking in.

No words pass between us,

but we each know what the other is thinking.

He knows he will never feel whole.

I know I will always worry for him.

We know that our worlds will never be perfect.

But in this moment, we at least have hope,

that our worlds will be bearable,

and that is as close to perfect as our lives will ever be.