FebulousFebruary 2026: The Old Photograph

A feeling.

Knocking at my chest from the inside.

But there is nowhere to go or escape.

There is no vessel to pour you into.

I cannot pickle you and put you on a shelf.

You do not go away even when I beg.

You wake me up knocking from the inside.

‘Wake up’ – you say.

To an empty room and an empty world.

How could a tender feeling bruise?

It claws sometimes.

Trying to escape.

But I have nowhere to put you.

You live inside.

We are both prisoners.

Inside out and outside in.

Locked in agony.

Cruel in its tenderness.

How can love be a feeling?

Anonymous, Kent