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The curtain moved.
Not with wind—
but with something
warm,
like breath held
then let go.

Her anklet scraped
the floor tile
only once.

Your tea
steeped too long
on the windowsill.

The calendar page
was blank.

Her scarf stayed
where she dropped it—
on the chair’s back,
faint with
lemon shampoo.

And you—
you didn’t touch it.
Not then.

But later,
you folded it.
Twice.

As if
that meant
you hadn’t looked.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Sometimes, absence is loudest in the things left behind. This is a quiet grief, told through scarves, silence, and tea that went cold.
Reality is cruel.
Fate is cruel.
You were cruel.
And me—
I’m no better.

Maybe I’m just…
Empty.

Not even lonely.
Just hollow. Void. Unmoving.
Unreal.

And now— I’m alone.
So alone.

I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know who I am.
I am clueless. I am lost.

"Help me."
"Miss me."
"Love me."
"And Tell me—why?"

Maybe one day—
I’ll begin to fill myself.
Because in the end,
no one else will do it.
No one else ever would.

But for now…
I’m just—
empty.

— The End —

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
“Some loves end quietly. Others echo forever.”

It is not a cry for attention, but a whispered acknowledgment of being stripped of feeling. A poem about heartbreak, abandonment, and the quiet ruin that follows. It’s not just about losing someone—it’s about losing yourself.
Will I ever find my soulmate?
Who will bathe me with love,
bring peace like a dove,
Who will be more compassionate?

Whose heart will reflect in their eyes,
Bright like the stars that shine in the night skies?

Where are you, my beloved?
When will I find you?
I’ve preserved everything I have to give you.
I want to be loved, to be adored —
By you, the one whose love I desire,
Like a candle in a dark room needs fire.

Who will water me like someone waters a dying flower,
Take care of me like I’m battling a fever?

Who will hold me close on nights so cold,
Whispers of warmth, a refuge to behold?
Who will ease my worries, calm my mind,
And appreciate the love that’s so hard to find?

Who will see me for all that I am —
Flaws, doubts, weaknesses — yet still call me their gem?
Who will grow with me, side by side,
Across every storm, every high and low ride?

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
A heartfelt reflection on longing, hope, and the dream of finding a love that heals and stays. Written from the quiet ache of waiting.
I used to talk too much.
Nowadays, I just sit in silence.
I want to tell everyone how I’m feeling—
I want to talk about everything.

But when the time comes,
“nothing comes out of my mouth—
nothing I truly want to talk about.”

So I speak of daily things,
of weather, work, what we ate.
I nod. I listen. I float.
But my soul—
“my soul wants to say something,
But I shut myself down.”

Inside me,
there’s a scream that no one hears.
It claws the walls of my chest,
cries in pain, grief, sadness—
like it’s been caged for years.

There is a trench,
deep and echoing,
carved by time and distance—
“created throughout the years of my life.”

While many grew
in the warmth of their parents’ arms,
“I spent my childhood far from them.”
I learned how to be silent
before I ever learned how to speak.

I feel emotions.
“I just don’t know how to express them.”
And when I try—
when I dare—
“it goes horribly wrong.”

I want to open up.
I want to tell someone.
I want to say:
This is how I feel.
Please understand.
Please stay.

“But when I do, everything goes south.”

So I quieted myself.
I taught my voice to whisper,
then to vanish.
I tried—
“and still try—
to talk less, to stay silent.”

But the silence isn’t peace.
It’s pressure.
It’s weight.
“I failed before,
and I’m still failing.”

Now I don’t know what to do anymo'.
I am deep below my own trench,
and still falling into the deep, dark below.

Will I ever hit the bottom?
The point where there’s no further down—
only up? I know I feel like a clown.

But still,

No more confusion.
No more sadness.
Only hope and happiness, I guess.
Peace of mind.
With all the past behind.

I feel lost. I don't feel like me.
I feel like I’m falling.
I feel empty inside me.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
A poem from the heart of the fall—when you're too deep to see the surface, but still quietly holding out for light. Written from a place of despair, and maybe… the start of healing.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Now I don’t know what to do anymo'.
I am deep below my own trench,
and still falling into the deep, dark below.

Will I ever hit the bottom?
The point where there’s no further down—
only up? I know I feel like a clown.

But still,

No more confusion.
No more sadness.
Only hope and happiness, I guess.
Peace of mind.
With all the past behind.

I feel lost. I don't feel like me.
I feel like I’m falling.
I feel empty inside me.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
A poem from the heart of the fall—when you're too deep to see the surface, but still quietly holding out for light. Written from a place of despair, and maybe… the start of healing.
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