This makes me think of an incomplete love--by that I mean perhaps a child lost before it was born, or a romance, conceived but never brought to fruition but remembered sadly for all that could never be.
A pain kept alive for the very comfort it brings.
For some reason I get this picture
in my head of an attic a chest
a small table and a rocking chair.
Then as if in a dream there comes
a creaking of tread an indistinct
figure sets down a bottle of wine
lights a candle and opens the chest.
Whereupon a skull is taken out
wine is poured and a soliloquy