Lyric

White walls hum above the chairs

A fan turns slowly, cutting heat

Shoes scrape lines across the floor

Dust gathers under every seat

The officer does not look angry

Only tired of other lives

He turns my page beneath the glass

Like weather passing through a file

My bag is light enough to lift

Still, my shoulders stay prepared

For one wrong word, one missing mark

One question hanging in the air

A blue-black stain

Sleeps in my skin

Small proof I crossed

But not where I begin

Outside, the road forgets the fence

Heat bends over parked machines

A woman sells fruit from a crate

Sweet juice running down her sleeve

I carry no flag in my breathing

No anthem under my ribs

Only a mark that says I moved

Through a line that never lived

There are places

That open like questions

There are doors

That close without sound

There are names

I learned for a minute

Then left

On the other side of town

By dusk, the ink has softened

Smudged by sweat and borrowed soap

But something in me keeps the crossing

Like a match kept dry for hope

A blue-black stain

Fading from view

Not quite a home

Not proof I’m new