It’s isn’t as concrete as longing. It’s not as strident as ambition or as active as any headlong passion.
A wistful feeling is a wispy thing, a delicately held contemplation of something with a note of desire, but no urgency. A wistful person sighs, and stares out the window at the rain, and sips tea while half-reading poems that mirror the pain in their heart.
Alas, the tea has grown cold.
There’s a genuine loss within wistfulness, but without muscular drama. There is nothing to be done except to remember, pensively run a hand through one’s hair, feel the loss, and wonder.
