During the chess game,
she made a good move.
I smiled a little,
typed:
"Nice"

Just felt right.
A simple thing.
No reply.
We played on.
It ended—a draw.

Then came her words.
First:
"indian"

I blinked.
Felt the air shift.
Then, second:
"monkey"

I just sat there.
Not hurt yet. Not angry.
Just… stunned.
Like: is this real?
I typed back:
"Why"

I added:
"You broke my heart"

I read it again.
Still stunned.
I didn’t know her.
Didn’t do anything.
We just played.

Then she dropped:
"virginity"

That word.
Out of nowhere.
Then:
"i no interesed"
"bye"

It didn’t sting.
It didn’t burn.
It just confused me.
Like the wind changed direction
and I wasn’t ready.

I wrote:
"Virginity?"
"What are you saying?"

No reply.
Just me,
sitting with a drawn game
and a question
I never saw coming.

Hope this poem reaches you.
To Juana Dayana
Of Colombia—
From HRS,
An Indian soul,
Caught in a drawn game’s pull.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.

We keep breaking the other
only to pick the broken pieces off the ground

Either we put the pieces together
or leave them down

We can’t go on forever
and not find a piece of us around

The matchbox
was hers—
bright red
with a tiger on it,
its head tilted
like it knew the ending.

One match left.
He kept it
in the drawer
beside loose buttons,
an eye drop bottle
half full,
a packet of salt
from a meal
they never finished.

He never lit it.

Not when
the bulb blew
above the stove.
Not when
monsoon took the power
three nights straight.

He’d reach—
then pause.
Then close the drawer
softly.

Until
the day
her number stopped ringing.

He struck it.

Once.

It flared—
brief, bright,
then gone.

The drawer
still smells
like her.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.