I knew, better than anyone else, that someone like you could never stay in one place for too long. This house, this room, this grave, was always too small. After the tenth time, I stopped calling the police. I got used to coming home to find you missing. No note, no letter. No sign to reassure me that you were real and I had not just spent the last decade dreaming. You always found your way back home though, missing tea, peanut butter, the warm press of your shoulder against mine. And I would forgive you, because I am helpless to do anything else. Even though it might have been 6 months since we last spoke, I would card my fingers through your hair, trembling, because I will never be enough for you. This world will not be enough for you.