i hate to be the bearer of bad news
but your cat has died.

and no, the fact that she is laying outside
no marks other than the many broken bones
is not important.

neither does it matter that her limp paws are surprisingly moist.

or that i am clutching my fish bowl- and there's no fish inside.
or water, for that matter- it has all spilled into the carpet.

you glance at me.
i am sweating profusely.

the window is wide open, and there is a steady breeze.
you step towards it, and look out.
down below, almost exactly under my window
is the cat.

you begin to put two and two together.
i begin to panic, and as before, i only can think of one thing to do.
you open your mouth to speak,
but it's too late.

you're already over the side.