brother

You have the most amazing bald patch shining on your crown, like a mountain peak standing tall between arctic clouds, as if someone has squished your bald head into a stocking far too small and sqeezed that fatty tissue and soft pink skin out into a perfect circle- crop circles- unnaturally and pedantically spherical; tufts around the edges, scarce tubleweed at first, as the scalp curves downwards, grey wire that falls hysterically onto curved, shameful shoulders, ending like burnt-out fuses at the defined bulge of a symetrical pair of rogue breasts which were lost when searching for a chest to settle but opted for a back; your back, and here they sit, staring at me this moment with melancholy shame, arched skyward as you hunch, no lurch forward, eyes down at your keyboard, waiting for a life to save to save your own. Your brother is already watching his own scalp emerge sheepishly from its thicket, and waiting for his breasts to bud. Just like yours.

I wonder if you are close or if you have ever been people who enjoy each others company, laugh at subtlties which you point out to each other though winks and flashes of white but uneven teeth, wishing momentarily that a third party could have shared your silent glory (you wouldn't to it justice to recall later), or if he ever laughed at your t-shirt, at the midriff if exposes, the uncharacteristically bulging gut which is, for some reason, borrowed skin- until I observe you together. He beat you in an arguament, didn't he, because you (as you are so well known for) pouted and closed over- stoned down and humiliated, forever the insatiable defeatest.