My Black Cat

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.