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There comes a moment—quiet, unceremonious, unmarked—when the person you loved, the person you tethered your life to, stops being who they were and becomes someone else entirely, someone harder, more distant, a stranger occupying the same body, breathing the same air, wearing the same clothes, but not looking at you the same way, not speaking in that tone that used to pull you in like gravity. And you try, at first, to ignore it, to pretend it’s fatigue or stress or something chemical, something repairable, reversible. You try to will him back into the person you fell in love with. But then you realize he’s gone. Not dead. Just gone. And there's nothing you can do. No apology, no touch, no cry in the middle of the night will resurrect him.
So you mourn. Not the way you mourn the dead. No one sends flowers. No one visits. No one tells you they’re sorry.

Eventually, you accept the most difficult truth: he is still alive, but he is no longer here.
You become fluent in restraint. You learn to keep your sadness contained in respectable proportions. And yet, it spills- into mornings, into coffee spoons, into phone calls you don’t return. You perform functionality, but inside, something is collapsing.
You realize the breaking doesn't stop. It finds new corners of you to shatter. It digs deeper. It makes room for more pain in places you thought had already been hollowed out. And this is when the past starts to rise, not as a memory, but as a presence, thick and heavy and suffocating. You find yourself in that same room—your mother’s room—years ago, where she cried into her pillow as if silence would keep you from hearing, as if the walls weren’t paper-thin, as if children don’t always know.
And now you are her. Crying into the same silence. Except there’s no child on the other side of the door. There’s just you. And the you that once was. The child that never left. The child who learned early that love could vanish without notice. That people could stay and still abandon you. That pain could be inherited like old furniture—passed down, room to room, woman to woman, until no one remembers where it began.
People tell you time heals. They say it with such confidence, as if time were a doctor, a god, a parent. But you know better. You know time doesn’t heal; it accumulates. It stacks the pain until it becomes indistinguishable from the rest of you. Until you forget what it was like to live without the weight of it.
You live inside them. You decorate them. You fold laundry in them. You raise children in them. You tell yourself you are functioning. But really, you're just surviving grief on a loop.
And in your most honest moments, when no one's looking, you admit it—not aloud, not even in writing, but somewhere behind the ribs: you are still that helpless girl. You never stopped being her. You only got taller.
I’m so tired of loving you.
Of holding a space
you can never fill.

Your absence
is all-consuming,
constant.
It presses.
It stings in stillness.

I close my eyes,
and your face
is still waiting for me there.

I don’t want to forget you.
I just want the remembering
to stop tearing me apart.

If there’s a way
to stop loving you
without falling apart,
please-
show me how.
I’m too tired to keep trying,
and too full of you
to stop.
An honest plea to be able to let go…
preston Jun 19

There are cries that come
like weather—
loud, sudden,
gone before they finish saying
what needed to be said.

And then there are the others.
The ones that wait for years
to find a home
safe enough
to be heard.

Tonight, it wasn’t just a song
that broke you—

it was the quiet
after the song ended,
the part where someone stayed.

No questions
or fixing.
Just presence,
while you folded
into the sound of your own heart
finally unclenching.

You didn’t cry because you were weak.

You cried because
you were ready
to stop pretending
it didn’t matter.

And the silence that followed
wasn’t empty—
it was full of everything
you never got to say.

So let this be the night
you remember not what shattered,

but who stayed
long enough
to help you gather the pieces.



Baby loves Song for Adam❤️

https://youtu.be/PjCqZ-LJaP8?si=DISToWcdaSIsHWcB

#ForSongbird,Lael-Summer, Josh,andAnneMarie

youtu.be/_UYwpcH9Jm4?si=PUs8xEzzcwbKCOL6

xox
a poet Jun 18
A sin for a gram of salt.
2 sins for a cup of rice.
I stand with empty pockets
in a shop where all tongues lie,
in a shop where all hands strangle,
in a shop where lust fills eyes.

he melted the bar of gold
and poured it into a cast.
A cast in the shape of a heart.

I have sinned again
and all I have is gold.
Gold,
and no heart.
star Jun 18
goodbyes 6.17.25 (8:32 pm / 10:32)
goodbyes are never really slammed doors
they’re slipping away
walking away
willingly even though you still can’t understand why

they’re looking back over your shoulder
knowing that is the last you’ll ever see of them

goodbyes for me are never crying
just standing there
staring ahead with dry eyes
wondering what just happened

maybe i’m saying goodbye wrong

[playing: marjorie by taylor swift]
vik Jun 17
she lieth clay, huff fled, withdrawn;
sun sleeps unturned, no lilt, no dawn.

the child stands silent, priests deceive,
she lingers not, the Lord won’t breathe.

they spake of light, of rule, of psalm,
yet death embraced what once was warm.

he looked and found the flesh laid bare;
at last he grasped, God was not there.
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.
Pauvel Jétha Jun 17
We were walking, the painter and I,
Across the plain and towards the hill.
The moon had waxed into her glory
Causing the zephyrs to sigh.

We rested awhile at the foot of the rise
Nestled in a comfortable silence.
The night moved on languid feet
Passion hidden under a serene guise.

We took the path on the dark leeward
My golden quill our only light.
The painter promised a spectacle
And anticipation fueled my climb

Cherry Blossoms swirled in the wind,
As we stood on silver bathed ground.
A man stood at the edge of the hill,
His hands on the railing, waiting.

Under the tree he stood.
The flowers hiding the wrinkles
Of his suit and his skin.
His gaze fixed upon the moon.

My friend and I sat against a boulder
And waited with him.
The wind whispered with the flowers
And the Sakura tree sang to the night.

The song was impossible,
Yet hear it we did.
Violins and keys, flutes and harps -
A haunting tune of longing.

And as the song rose,
A woman stood beside the man;
A bride clad in a moonlight gown,
Her veil of starshine trailing behind.

The man took her hand,
And the woman drew closer.
And groom and bride,
They danced among the flowers.

Wrinkles were smoothened
Trembling hands strengthened
Faltering feet trode sure
And wilting heart bloomed anew.

Happiness perfused the air.
Cruelly brief the phenomenon would be -
So the man knew, and chose to forget.
He held on to the past and danced.

We sat there, intruders and fools,
Too ashamed to look on,
Too enthralled to look away,
Until sleep hid them from our eyes.

The melody rains with the petals,
Tears dance with the smiles.
The waltz of the weary hearts
Lasts as long as the moon.
Inspired by the song 'Dearest' by Ayumi Hamasaki
White Owl Jun 17
A heavy mist, a cruel, indifferent cloud
That chases off the tranquil air of peace
And chokes the sun of joy in darkened shroud.
A sickly heart summons this vapor swell
If suffering from a crack or missing piece,
By aching wounds confined to its own Hell.
Such misery I know extremely well.
June '25

The second of three
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