I know my place in this world by your being out of place in it. What I set right, you overturn again and again and consume me in your drawing of drawers and tossing of socks and pencils and books and the five-dollar Baroque vase that you added to the trolley at the thrift store.
No point saving an unreal holder. You smash an order to make another and remind the world it is a version.
What a mess you leave in your wake. I do not yet know that I'm happiest when I toss in your waves and forget the stiff earth beneath my feet.
I hover over you as you hover like a helicopter with paper blades, crunching and smacking and making sucking sounds in the predictable air.
I kiss your face when you're asleep at night and rest. I'm tired, frustrated. Why, dear brother, must things have their proper places? Mere things they are.
You are the front man of this two-man band and I, your brother, till the music ends.