It feels empty. The heart beats, the brain thinks. Yet, it is empty. Embers extinguished. Eyes dimmed. it still wants, still desires. If empty. Why can’t it be filled. Empty sorrow. Is it isolation, the feeling of solitude gripping an empty soul? Or is it just the passions of youth, burned out? Just the wisps of lust choking the desires of life? This suffocation hurts. Yet only “it” is affected. No one sees, no one hears, no one offers. And yet, it lives. It continues. It survives. why does it bother? Why does it want? Why does it look like me.