I wished

​I do not know what I feel ​I do not know what I am feeling, The sentiment is vague, Something as ephemeral as a breeze, Yet as piercing as a thorn. ​The absence within my chest, The absence of this weight, Constantly reminds me Of the search for that very thing. ​They ask me while I write, And little by little, I run out of path: "What is your desire, sir? What is your longing?" ​My desire, my only desire, Is simply for time to pass, For my old yearnings to tighten their grip, And above all, that I might remember Why I am alive. Life itself without a purpose Is not something I want, nor deserve. ​But... wait a moment, Is that pain what I feel? The absence within my chest— I wait, I only wait, That I might be able to remember again... ​Why does my chest ache?