Through an Apartment Window

Maisy Ballantyne

It must have been a rushed morning, says the mug half-full of now cold coffee.

She’s always busy with work, says the wilted houseplant on the window sill.

She wants to free herself from repetitive daily life, says the muddy hiking boots resting by the front door, and the compass hanging from the coat hook.

Her hair is always matted with ocean salt and full of twigs, says the comb, missing a considerable number of teeth.

She lives for memories, says the pictures plastering the walls, depicting the smiles of old friends, mountain tops conquered, and cities explored.

She thrives for adventure, they say.

Woman with Flower