Bench at the window

I don’t trust anyone
You trust everyone
Correcting me, it’s not trust
It’s…
What is it?
Ah I remember
Yes, the isolation
The detachment
That was god’s special gift to you
Or curse
I don’t know, my brother
My alter-ego
Which of us has it worse
Me who has to deal with them every-day
Which isn’t always painful
Or you who never recognises them
Encountering each with your special brand of neutrality
One worrisome ghost tried to tell me that you’re a frail thing
That I step-in so often to preserve you
I disagree, perhaps it’s instinct
Perhaps amusement
I don’t feel I have to protect you
Because brother, you’re protecting me
Keeping me from the damage they do
We’re in this together
And eventually we’ll share the same house
Like we always do
I’m glad we get along