why i love my older brother

it's been made clear:
i don't have a father the way i should.
not biologically, and definitely not step.
and when i was as dark as i could go,
he was eighteen, finally mature enough.
the brother i usually didn't give a second thought to
was teaching himself to play guitar.
he played any song i came up with,
told me the names of almost all my now-favorite bands.
music became second nature.
he became instinct.
he had saved me from sex once, years before,
in an instinctive protective moment.
now he was always like that.
always nice, always listening, always making sense.
he was my dream father.
the day i had to leave the boy of my dreams, i walked around
senselessly,
sobbing without shame. when i passed my house for the
fourth time, i knew that the brave face had to go on.
he was inside and i
couldn't let him know i was hurting.
when he saw me, i know he saw
through my mask. a few quick words
ended the conversation, as i left to cry. he
knew, and didn't ask me once about it.
now he's going to leave.
he's nineteen, the right age.
when he gets back he'll start a family.
i'm in my last months
with my dream dad.