To approach an airport
and not be in receipt of visitation
is like preparing food when hungry,
but not being allowed to eat.

The faces of past passengers
lighting up with eye contact,
or solemn in their departure gates,
gives the airport license of birth.

Once within the grounds,
or on the circuit thereof,
and with no name for a card,
a part of me weeps.

Fleeting but personal,
those faces, for better or worse,
are stuck in my heart,
like arrows. Like rose thorns.

And without their immediacy
or memory or anticipation,
this place is a prison,
whose fences damage my soul.

And I am all too aware
of the reasons.