He takes off his jacket and walks to my room,

Grabbing my drumsticks on the way to waste some time.

Without delay he starts drumming on the pillow and begins to make a mess,

pushing all of my papers away, some falling to the floor.

I tell him to leave.

But as always, he ignores me, waiting for me to yell.

Waiting for me to get in trouble.

At dinner he eats everything,

Grabbing the last biscut, as someone else is about to take it.

Refusing to stop talking.

His worn out jean jacket,

torn up converse,

usually both left scattered around the living room.

He acts like he's 5, though he's really 18.

His choppy cut black hair annoys me,

And the fact that he constantly holds my things in the air,

Knowing I can't reach it from him.

But sometimes we talk,

And he plays my guitar,

and I almost love him.

Just barely.