I used to know a stray cat. 
 
A cat of my neighbor, actually.
 
He has a different name, 
but I named him Kitkat. 
 
He goes to the front door every morning to wait for me. 
 
Whenever I open the door, his cries are expected. 
 
That habitual sound 
when he asks for food;
 
That familiar feeling
whenever I look for a bread to give;
 
That natural thrill
whenever I come to ease his hunger.
 
I'ts been a constant morning routine.
 
Then one morning came, 
where my Kitkat hasn't been found.
 
I called for his name, 
but I heard nothing. 
 
That mundane and eager clamor 
looking for a home, 
while I go over and fill his excitement--
is now gone. 
 
Well, I just realized--
he's not mine, after all. 
 
Like Kitkat, 
there are certain things that we hold on to-- 
but are not meant for us. 
That do not belong to us. 
 
And yet we try so hard to keep it.
Then I guess that's what set you and me apart.