Every Candle

- to my brother

You were the shadow sleeping near my feet,
a breath too soft for anyone to keep.
I was the roof when thunder made you flinch,
the quiet hand that held you inch by inch.

He wore a voice that shattered glass and bone,
but I would steal you somewhere safe, alone,
beneath the bed, behind the closet door,
each heartbeat swore I’d let him touch no more.

I built a world from blankets, books, and light,
a paper sword clenched in my grip each night.
I was the nightlight cupped beneath your chin,
the lock I formed to keep the terror in.

I aged too fast. You learned to cry too small.
We danced on eggshells lining every wall.
You hid in me the way roots hide in stone,
afraid to bloom in places not your own.

I traced your dreams and stitched them in your bed,
tucked in the parts you never knew you said.
I learned to smile with silence in my chest,
to make you think the world could still be blessed.

But years are thieves, and love is not a shield.
My name grew wings. I left the shattered field.
I didn’t look. I feared you’d beg me stay,
my hands still warm with ghosts I drove away.

Now every town I cross, your face still shows
in windowpanes and coats and radios.
I light a candle for you in each church
I wander through, no matter how it hurts.

You are the part I couldn’t take along,
the missing chord in every finished song.
And though I left with splinters in my spine,
I’d break again to keep your hands in mine.