Famished

I had felt him coming days before he arrived.

I would stop by the old houses and look inside, as they bore the signs of unmistakable kinship;
I would prefer to wear gray and drink coffee without milk;
I would stay awake longer than usual, staring at my palms.

I knew him before.
We’d met several times and I was fascinated by his pale demeanor,
of how sure of himself he was,
of his talent to impose importance over the quietest of noises...
But we were never friends.
(I felt slightly intimidated by his confidence.)
I had made habit of befriending only those who made good pets, good companions.
But him...
He would never stand small.

And I probably didn’t really want to play a host,
but never had enough courage to deny myself wonderful pleasures of his company.
I felt alone without him
And hoped he’d feel the same if I domesticated him better.
I wanted to be missed by him.
We were never friends but perhaps he loved me more, than he loves others.

And when he stayed with me,
He belonged to me like pyramids belong to time.

Sadness was his name.
And he rarely assumed a physical form.
But I still found him in my old books and poems,
And letters and films.
And he’d always find me in his present,
And his past.
We were never friends,
But still drawn to each-other.

I felt too young in his presence.
And after he’d leave,
I’d be too old for my age;
too famished for life.