By some curse of kismet,
your room is one door down from mine,
has been since my start.

By some unfortunate occurence,
your tendency to meld melting popsicles
and fizzing sodas with my duvet
is swept over by our parents since
you simply smile through their lectures.

By some hopeless happening,
you ramble about stocks and drones,
first-person shooters and consoles
despite how much I despise them
or have waved you away.

By some latent tragedy,
you cut a seed-filled seedless watermelon 
and tossed only the pink rinds to me.

But by some hesitant admittance,
I must confess that
your room has been a haven 
for movie nights and pillow fights,
your tendencies annoying 
but often well-intentioned,
your ramblings numbingly educational
and occassionally interesting,
your gifts gags save for when
you spend hundreds on my birthday.

I guess I confess that it’s a bother 
you’re my brother, 
but I’d be remiss to not miss you.