Tired of being alone, to fight when you feel like flying

It was 5 in the morning and I watched him pack his bulky black bag for his next trip. I lay amongst his belongings in my yellow pyjama pants, hoping that he would pick me up next -- not to fold me up nicely to fit his customs but for him to stay and I dare say, fit mine.

A white cup of water with some scratches on the handle, a tight embrace, a rough kiss on the cheek. I scampered away from the door and climbed up the couch. I perched my little being on the tip looking out through the windows. I never liked the grills that held me back. The gaps were too small. 

Everything was beneath me, well, I lived way too high. 

Sleeping neighbours, trees, black and white, a public bus. Where is he?

A tiny figure emerged, slightly unstable with heavy footsteps. His baggage was way too big. I slipped my arm through the grills, my face squashed against more grills. Sometimes I screamed.

I was only nine.

When I turned twenty I dreaded heading for that window. It was too tiresome. I dragged my grown feet up the sofa, slipped my hand out the grills when it was time and headed straight back. No screams, just a ritual, a sense of duty.

He stopped coming back and he took a piece of my belonging with him. 

Out the door she went, with a piece of what's mine too.

It's all too familiar -- the same flush of liquid burns, the same dam broke. 

That very same abandonment.