Conversing with clouds

I saw you whispering wishes to clouds that day.

You thought no one knew where you were; you thought little children were not allowed on the rooftop, telling their secrets to celestial cotton candy; you thought no one could know that you were sad. And in doing so, you kept forgetting again and again that I would always guess, or deduce, or simply know, the way any older brother would do.

I suppose there is such a thing as hate compensating for love, and you refusing to accept that we are alike is the price I have to pay for my lack of caring for anyone else. Love is a dangerous and useless thing - this we would agree on, and our pride would always take care of the small exceptions which reminded us that we were ultimately human. Curious little animal, this pride of ours. It snuck into our cribs long before we had even learnt how to walk and it fit snugly in the places behind our ears and between our fingertips. Chances are I passed onto you like a virus, or maybe a disease, this hungry little pet with sticky fingers, and I cannot say if it was for the better or for the worse.

And then there you were, on the rooftop, talking yourself into unhappiness with the clouds above, while I had to attend the party like the good son, bored out of my mind and oh-so-polite. You and I, the Holmes boys; one was president of his class and exemplary student of his year, the other was the social outcast who offended both teachers and students alike. I can understand why you would choose clouds.

It has been many years since then and I find myself in the awkward position to say that nothing has changed. You're on the rooftop, of course, and I am in the midst of politely smiling at depressed people who abide by the rules of modern-day society. You will go on talking to your silly clouds and I shall have to make up a dozen excuses for your rash behaviour again.

And now you are up there, alone and sad with your head in the clouds, breaking the heart which you refused to admit that you have;

and I am down here, alone amongst people, having to cover up for everything you do, as always;

and there is nothing but a trail of loneliness and broken hearts between what you leave behind and what I have to play along to;

and I just wish you hadn't chosen clouds this time.

A/N - Inspired by and heavily based on 'Shooting star sonata' by Khrishna over at devArt, especially the first line.