I found it at the bottom of the canvas bag —

I found it at the bottom of the canvas bag —

the burgundy one, the one that costs a life

to replace. My face in the photo: a lag

of seven years behind it. Before the knife

of all those Tuesdays. The EXPIRED stamp

in red, hard and bureaucratic as a slap,

and the departure stamp, the city's damp

smear of ink — I don't think about that map

anymore. The group chat lit up: Paris, yes!

Who's in? I typed a string of hearts. Didn't say:

I am technically landlocked, more or less,

until I sit in the right office, pay

the fee, submit the form, become again

a person the border will let in.