Expired Geography

The worn blue cover feels like time,

a thin worn skin against my palm.

I trace a stamp, a foreign clime

that never brought me any balm.

It’s just a book, this faded thing,

where borders blur and old hopes cling.

A country waits, a distant sound,

on maps I’ve never truly found.

The visa sticker, small and bright,

a promise of a different light.

But here I sit, the drawer is shut,

this journey finished, or just cut.