It's that smell of last
cigarette
on your clothes
the hole burned through your white cotton
tshirt, pink lipgloss on the cuff of your sleeve
where has she been kissing?
I shouldn't care.
You're sixteen, seventeen
eighteen?
You're too old, you're too young
i'm the little sister, aren't you suppose to be
worried
about me?

It's a lullaby now, a song of return a
scent i associate with family
smoke
sweat and
sugar.