The beginnings of summer in a global pandemic

I’ve lost my passport.
I’m declaring it “lost” but really
it’s in my room somewhere,
buried among a sea of boxes I’ve still yet to unpack.
My room, my little brother’s old room, the spare room.
How odd — this suffocating weight of something gone:
Mon passeport, mon cheri, tu mes manques: 
"You are missing to me.”
Funny — since my only travels exist
within the confines of ninety-minute films,
an evening wandering Vienna with Jesse and Celine,
one day in Paris, a whole summer spent in Greece.
My sense of urgency’s in short supply,
the impulse to ransack my belongings and reunite us.
Passport, papers, laissez-passer, doorway, avenue, ticket out of here.
But if I were to find my love, where would we go together?
Even the bars are shut, the meat-markets hollow.
For now, I sip escapism from cans of beer
while picking through the wreckage of souvenirs from a past life.