Stamped passage

Pages dog-eared, edges frayed,

like maps worn thin

from tracing invisible lines.

I flip through visa stamps,

some faded like ghosts,

others fresh, angry reds,

a patchwork of somewhere and nowhere.

Waiting in line, the plastic slips

between my fingers,

a weight of journeys

I can’t unpack.

Each crease a chapter,

every stamp a silence

in the story I never finish telling.