Secondhand Warmth

He called me 'baby' on the phone,

a familiar sting, forever known.

And then that photo, old and faded,

the past, like some old song, invaded.

My sister's jacket, stiff and vast,

my tiny form, it couldn't last.

The sleeves rolled up, a bulky cuff,

like padded clouds, it was enough.

Her scent still clung, a trace of grace,

a lingering warmth, a borrowed space.

I wore her story, stitched and worn,

a tiny sprout, not fully born.

Forever second, since that morn.