Somewhere above a port town
stacked like a drunken Jenga game,
a cat crosses a corrugated roof
as if it owns the moment—
which it does.

Below, a man sobs into a cappuccino
because she left him (again),
and the housing market is fake,
and his therapist nodded too slowly.

Meanwhile, a crow shits on a streetlamp
in front of a view that would
break your Instagram.

Empathy killed my uncle.
This poem is not about that,
except it is,
because I used to think my pain
was weather—
external, forceful,
something you just dress for.

But it turns out,
I’m the storm system.

Thoughts make feelings.
Feelings fuel actions.
Actions create regret
unless you’re a cat
or maybe a bird
or one of those old women
selling homemade vinegar from
a window that’s also a shop
that’s also a bedroom.

I read a book I hated—
loved—
because it said my neurons
were just collapsing probability waves
into things I call problems.

And it hit me:
my sadness has branding.
My joy has a marketing team.
My shame is just a bad narrator
with a megaphone and too much free time.

So now, I’m writing this
for you—
yes, you,
the reader with your comfort
like a souvenir scarf
from some place you've never bled.

Let’s fold our empathy
into origami swans
and set them loose on dirty water
just to see
if they float
or change anything.