Between the bars

He falls asleep so quickly but before he does he waits as the question lingers:

- "When are you going home?"

I 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.

He 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.