Passport. Visa. Questions. Answers. Fingerprints - right hand, left hand. Photograph of my sleepless face minus glasses. Two stamps of arrival in red. Outside a taxi. One tunnel. Two bridges.

This is how I cross into one of your cities, even though you will always remain walled off to me, Adrienne, a refugee and a fugitive from love.

Note: Written while waiting in an hour long line for "Visitors" at the border, at NYC's JFK Airport.