What the Window Kept

Steam climbs the glass

from instant noodles

balanced on a paint tin beside the sink.

~

Outside,

the neighbor in 4C waters tomatoes

with bottled water

during restrictions.

~

Later,

the balcony hangs empty for three years.

~

Before that,

her son leaned through those rails

holding a paper airplane

creased soft from sweat.

~

The window latch sticks again.

Always winter swelling the frame.

Always somebody forcing it open anyway.

~

On the avenue below,

tram cables hum over floodwater.

~

Not yet.

~

For now

there are taxis,

rain,

a man smoking under the chemist awning

with roses wrapped in newspaper.

~

The wallpaper used to be yellow.

~

Under the current white paint

the damp pushes through again,

slowly returning.

~

Someone laughed in this room so hard once

wine came through her nose

onto the carpet.

~

The stain remains

under the bookshelf.

~

Years after the fires,

ash still settles

inside the track of the sliding window.

~

The skyline disappears for weeks.

Returns smaller.

~

A child presses her face to the glass,

watching helicopters lower food crates

into the schoolyard.

~

No,

earlier than that.

~

She is still unborn.

~

There is only music upstairs,

cheap garlic in hot oil,

someone arguing about rent,

someone making love loudly enough

to embarrass the plumbing.

~

The kettle changes twice.

The sound remains identical.

~

Blue emergency lighting

flickers across the ceiling.

~

Not emergency yet.

Only nightclub spill

from the street below.

~

A woman in silver heels

sits on the curb crying

with one hand still wrapped around a burrito.

~

Pigeons nested in the air conditioner once.

Then drones.

Then nothing at all.

~

Morning light reaches the kitchen tiles

through towers that do not exist anymore.

~

The glass keeps fingerprints

for years after.

Nobody notices.

~

In summer,

the power cuts every afternoon at 2:17.

~

People begin planning around it

the way grandparents once discussed rain.

~

Sandbags stay permanently

near the elevator.

~

Someone drapes a towel over them

when guests visit.

~

The city glows orange for a month.

Not sunset.

~

The apartment smells briefly

of seawater,

mould,

bleach,

then coffee again.

~

Always coffee again.

~

A cracked mug waits on the sill

beside a packet of basil seeds

long expired.

~

Outside,

boats move slowly through intersections.

~

Outside,

a tram passes.

~

Outside,

a horse pulls milk through the street

before the tower was built.

~

The same window.

~

The same angle of morning.

~

The same urge

to stand beside the glass

and search for weather,

for smoke,

for someone returning.

~

Condensation clouds the pane.

~

A hand wipes clear

a small circle to look through.