Longing for departure, I travel alone to the airport,
lost, searching for the arrival hall instead. My red
passport insists I belong, but no one looks

like me here. I ride the Skytrain, chasing your eyes, raw
under light too early to be kind. Entering a dark tunnel
I catch your handprint on the glass,

vanishing. The air in this train's cabin summons the morning
I woke up to, your hoodie slumped like unclaimed luggage,
still warm with sleep, my pillows

cold as gate seats at four a.m., haunted by your bitter scent
like a flight diverted last minute and a voice note on repeat
at Terminal 1, fading. I think of my knee

locked behind yours hours before that sleepless airport night
you left without goodbye. You never travelled light—even love
wouldn't stay packed. You danced in the duty-free aisle

trying to make me laugh. There, your voice cracked singing
some love song no longer ours. We missed our exit. The train
loops, unbroken. I know I should get off—

but every terminal feels like an immigration hall in a world
you're no longer in. I stay near the doors. I want
to be the gate that flickers your name. When I can't ride

this train past Terminal 3 and that same Toast Box
still smelling like you, I lift my eyes skywards,
the arrival hall almost flinching

as I remember you coming through, pressing your passport
smudged with every place I wasn't.

I press my forehead to the glass.