For His Sister

I hate the taste of reality, and the taste of fiction, one of which is too sweet (It's hard to tell which). They burn my throat, so I settle for inhaling the smoke (not literal, it's only his thoughts) as it seeps, ink laden and indebted from underneath the bedroom door.
Joel sits on the bed, typing out page long articles about the risks about bone marrow transplants. He includes more pros than cons of course, for his sister. The bedroom is Joel's until around twelve, when he slips into a coffee induced coma. He always leaves the window open, I don't know if it's because it helps him sleep, or if he's waiting for his Romeo to throw him a rope (he's always been such a girly-boy), or if he just forgets to close it.
It's twelve-thirty and he's still there, typing, a red college dictionary open to his left, somewhere in the i's. He doesn't blink for a long minute, yawns, and opens up a new document. He titles it "Thank You" and pauses. He thinks about his sister, and her dreams, and her hopes, and his own dreams and hopes, and closes the laptop.
As soon as he closes his eyes I know he's asleep. He yawns softly, and I open the door, close the window, and shut off the light. I know he'll tell me tomorrow.