I don't recognize these buildings now,
nor the faces of the people who stare dolefully out the windows. There's no sense of belonging, here - just the dissociated millennial three floors up, and the distant stare of the boy who's lost his mother. I'm a creature of habit. Of habitat. And I'm here. I feel at home anywhere, it's my gift. To sink into the soft grass in a park halfway 'round the world, and lull myself to sleep with the syncopation of a foreign language. Your mother tongue whispers sweet nothings through my ears, and I run my fingers through blades of grass and over vowels like velvet, every bit aware of the sensations that arouse when words wrap so effortlessly: there is an eroticism in familiar words spoken miles from my address. I don't have a backstory, but I see the world through hardcovers and bookmarks; I can balance on my tropes. I use books like maps, to ground me in reality to locate the truth to navigate my own story. I wake up next to strangers in the golden hour in tangles of cotton and glass. I feel at home anywhere, it's my curse. This is not my story: there is no beginning, no middle. I've come into the plot at the end - I'm not familiar with the characters. I'm under the impression that this is where I ought to be, though it feels wrong. These hands are not my hands. These fingers curled around the arms of a stranger can't be mine. I'm a creature of habit. Of habitat. Of habit. I recognize the reflection in the windows, but not these buildings. This is not my story. This is not my story.
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