I heard the intake buzzer sing,

cold as a hospital wing;

your laugh slipped through the plexiglass

and flickered out like faulty volts of light.

They called my name like a diagnosis,

spelled it wrong, pronounced it guilty—

said love was never written in the code.

You pressed your palm against the window,

said, “Home is every breath we share.”

I tasted alarms in the dusty air

while the cuffs cinched tighter for the ride.

The van door closed like a morgue drawer—

I mouthed stay awake before the engine coughed.

Officer, the metal burns my skin,

but the crime you’re carting off is wind;

one more hour to memorize her face—

one more night before the record spins.

Drive me back to nowhere,

to lines they drew in sand;

strip the borrowed future from my hands

if that’s the only plan.

But leave her in the dorm-room light,

let her keep the ghost of us;

I’ll trade you freedom for a memory

if memory’s enough.

TV glows like chemo drips—

Orange Julius in a suit signs orders,

louder than the ventilators,

whiter than the border wall of sheets.

“Making you safe,” he promises the room,

but the room just shivers under heat.

Officer, is mercy still a form to file?

I’d fill it out in blood if ink runs dry.

Officer, tell him I’m still alive—

tell Trump he’s only moved the headline,

not the heart inside.

So drive me back to nowhere,

let the motor hum like grief;

reunite me with the silence

that your papers call relief.

And if she wakes to empty sheets,

don’t say my name aloud—

she’ll hear it in the radio hiss,

the place we once called loud.

I wish love could cross a checkpoint

the way a whisper crosses air;

but you can’t deport a heartbeat,

and it’s still beating there.