He falls asleep so quickly but before he does he waits as the question lingers:
- "When are you going home?"
refrain from asking what that means, he wouldn't understand. I have no
home, I never wished for one. All my life I've been trying to escape but
that intrusive, suffocating feeling of imprisonment catches up with me
wherever I go. The world is not my oyster. It's a fishbowl.
exhales, lets his hand wander from below my chest where he placed it
until it rests weightlessly between my legs, his fingertips on the white
cotton. It's not because he wants to fuck me, he does it because he
knows it makes me calm. Maybe that's what it means, maybe that's what it
feels like to have a home.
In the morning I stroll through the Jardin des Plantes, I try to breathe but my lungs are filled with water.