In The Airports
I see them as funeral houses.
I see the longing and the sorrows.
The passengers left—
and they became the ghosts
that greet me.
They show me the architecture,
the lights and the reflections,
then point at a random stranger,
mocking them in silence—
using my voice
for the mocking.
If the world has a graveyard for the lost,
they must add this place to the map.
But here I am,
still complaining,
still bearing this alone—
as if I volunteered
to haunt these terminals
in exchange for
one more unspoken goodbye.
At least
they could’ve revealed more.
Copyright © Kell Futoll | Year Posted 2025
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