The cat remains on the balcony.
He has learned
the exact length of shade
cast by the railing at noon,
the tremor of the neighbour’s footsteps,
the slow arithmetic of hunger.
His body fits the night
the way a sentence fits its margin.
I have kept the door closed
for reasons that arrange themselves
neatly when spoken aloud.
Inside, the floor stays unscarred.
The furniture forgets.
Order persists.
Sometimes,
when the city thins into sirens and sleep,
I imagine a sound
interrupting the dark—
wood meeting bone,
a cry rising
with the accuracy of memory.
His eyes, I imagine, stay open.
Not wide.
Only fixed,
holding the light from the window
the way a basin holds water
it cannot lift.
The cry comes late.
Thin.
Accurate.
In that instant,
he would know the geometry of the house,
the warmth pooled behind the glass,
the shape of my name
as something once useful.
The balcony holds its breath.
The night resumes its commerce.
No door opens.
By morning,
there is only fur
brushed against metal,
and the quiet skill
with which I step around it.
28 January, 2026
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