The Borrowed View

The upstairs neighbor is leaving next month.

They mentioned it this morning,

their lease is up,

they found somewhere cheaper,

somewhere with less noise,

somewhere that isn't here.

I've been here five years.

I know that because I counted,

sitting on the fire escape this morning,

my palms rough on the metal grating,

the city spread below me

like I owned it,

like it was mine to keep.

But nothing is kept.

The parking lot shifts with seasons.

The neighbors rotate.

I rotate too, I guess,

but slower.

More stubborn.

The metal is cold even in spring.

It's a borrowed view,

a temporary arrangement,

a place to sit while you wait

for the real thing to start,

except the real thing is this,

this cold metal,

this city that doesn't care,

this five years that passed

without me noticing

it was already leaving.

My neighbor packed boxes all week.

The sound came through the ceiling.

Now the apartment above me

is hollow.

Empty.

Ready for the next person

to mistake it for permanence.

I'll probably stay another year.

Maybe two.

The view doesn't change.

Just the people in it.