Homeless

I am always looking for a way out. For a plan B. To escape a country. To move on. I moved between so many houses when I was a kid that I started to forget how they looked like. I wish I took picture of each one of them. I moved so many times that I forgot what a home smells like. I moved as a kid following my parents, but now I am moving to escape. Escape living in a two bedroom apartment with three other people in a country that is not mine. Or escape living in a two bedroom apartment in my country, but in an apartment that is not mine. I moved to a one bedroom apartment under a lease that is mine, in a country that might become mine. I thought I had a second home, until I lost my residence permit that I had for more than ten years. I took a place for granted, and I am back to square zero with nothing other than a green passport. A passport for a place that I stopped calling home the moment I lost those who made it home.