I walk streets where dogs learn silence,
tails tucked into winter,
eyes trained to ask permission from air.
Cats sit like unanswered questions
on cold windowsills,
their hunger brushed past,
their presence tolerated, never welcomed.
I don’t say they are hated—
only that love here
doesn’t bend low enough
to meet them.
Hands stay in pockets.
Doors stay closed.
Compassion keeps its distance,
as if closeness were a risk.
And I, who listen for warmth in small lives,
hear it echo elsewhere—
not because it doesn’t exist here,
but because it speaks a different language
than mine.