A Certain Kind of Ache

There is a certain kind of ache
Which lingers
Felt by the brain--
Though the hand may search in vain
The weary feel it,
As do the restless
(No, these are not the same thing)--
As do those who remain
Too focused for too long.

It is impossible to grasp
Yet impossible to ignore,
For it nags like a child
Or the question of whether or not
You did in fact lock the door
Or the feeling of missing out
Or seeing too much--
It hurts the way the sun can,
The way you can't stop
Poking a bruise,
The way it feels thinking about
That person who almost loved you.

There is no real end for this poem--
Not an intended one,
For there is no real way
Of ending the pain
Without first finding the source,
And in this poem's case
The ache and the source
Are the same.