i smell like a family
there is drool on my shoulder
blending into the fabric
of my flannel
where i held my friend’s baby
and i kissed her head and
her little face
and told her i loved her
and she giggled
and burbled back at me
and soaked my shirt in drool

there is dirt and grit
clinging to my skin
and my hair
where i held my friend close
after so many months of
radio silence on both our parts
and told him i loved him
and i smell like him
a lingering scent of
earth and travel
because for a nomad
the road is their home
but now he is so domestic
and underneath his usual smells
he smells like soap and clean clothes
and while this is strange
i am happy for him

i press myself into my friends
an extended family
ever expanding
i try to take in as much
of their scents as i can
because i naively hope that
i can drown out the smell
of fear and sleepless nights
and cold sweats that cling to me
i do not want to smell like my nightmares

i let them permeate my skin
and they stay with me
even if they are miles
and years away
i keep little parts of them
and they keep me going
they keep me whole

because family doesn’t
end with blood
but it doesn’t start there
either