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The neem tree leaned,
its shadow folding over my sandals.
I waited by the roadside,
a bag of sweets
growing warm in my hand.

The call to prayer
had ended.
A boy passed, dragging a kite string.

She came.
Dust on her dupatta.
No earrings.
Eyes like the river after rain.

I didn’t speak at first.
A goat kicked at a plastic bucket.
A car horn blinked through the silence.

Then,
three words —
small as mustard seeds
spilled into the wind.

She nodded.
A bird shifted in the eaves.
Nothing else moved.

That evening,
even my shadow
walked beside me
without sound.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
A poem about stillness, unsaid love, and how even silence can nod back.
J Lobo May 14
If that gem lay there before you
the one you never knew you needed
if it shimmered
would you not reach to make it your own

If it sparkled, just enough
to lift your heart from where it sank
if it was there
would you turn away for lack of reason

Would you tell yourself it’s not for you
not meant, not earned, not real
that some hands are made to hold beauty
and yours are not among them

Would you fear it might fade in your grasp
or that you would
break it
smear the shine with doubt
taint the treasure by wanting it too much

Or would you kneel
not with greed but with wonder
fingers trembling, heart split open
and take it gently
like it had been waiting
for you
all along
MetaVerse May 6
.

min     mal
         i
pr          sm

Immortality Mar 20
Love,
in its calm,
feels like breathing,
quiet,
steady,
always there.
Calm love should feel like the early morning light, - soft, steady, and effortless, isn't it???
dead poet Dec 2024
a ;
a .
a ?
some - – —
an ‘
some ( )
a ,
an _
a few ‘ ’ " "
the rare *
the gaping ...
some [ ]
some { }
some !!!
and a healthy :

there you go,
you can write a poem now.
dead poet Dec 2024
the shirt, unbuttoned;
the V cuts deep enough for -
U to C me bare.
dead poet Dec 2024
i snort the pillow;
lick shampoo off her hair strands;
she’s on to witchcraft.
mikey Dec 2024
my father is telling me last night he dreamt he was telling the neighbours to install a shining privacy screen. my mother is telling me she dreamt about doing her taxes. “hand over your documents” the man said. she’s telling me how it was a different man, and how he really should have already had their documents, and i’m just sitting here thinking ‘if my dreams ever get this boring, please shoot me’. i don’t want domestic fantasies. i am not my father. my father’s only son is the house we live in. i am not allowed to touch the walls. i am not my mother. i do not care if my surfaces shine or not. i am not my parents. i do not want a government job. i do not want a sterile house. i don’t like ikea furniture. i still have dreams about zombies and my friends and war the ocean and i never want that to go away.
dead poet Dec 2024
the phone’s rung twice now;
i can hear it from the bath,
too naked to talk.
dead poet Dec 2024
cut me some slack;
been feeding too long on crackers from the mart.
it takes guts to admit -
the best feeling you've had all day
is letting out a ****.
sorry, i know it stinks. had to let it out.
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