You felt like home,
like comfort, familiar like
grandfather's old flannel button ups,
wafting the subtle, distant scent
of 20-year-old cigarette smoke--
undeterred by the washing machine.
You felt like home.
Like me, the little girl,
promising to quit my addiction to burritos,
so he would promise to quit smoking.
Hugging you was like
I could almost ignore it.
Like if I held tight enough
the nearing scent of smoke would
fade.
Or it would have no space to sneak between.
Home, like the smell of a lie.
You were the home I ran away from
years ago,
yet somehow find myself running back to.