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Zelda 2d
Silence-spilled rooms,
and red high-high-heeled shoes
Shadows blooming in forgotten perfumes.
Curtains drifting like whispered thoughts,
she lies on a bed
watching morning break her—
dreams...
and unwelcome guests in her head...

Oh, darling—
there's no time for excuses,
flashbacks.
Something special in a hush.
There's no reason to ask for anything more...
Between Breathes.

Plastic tips tap-tap harsh on icy floors,
empty kitchen,
undone button-up shirt.
Her skin is exposed to the poetry.
The Art must suffer.
Be careful
not to let it leave a mark.

watch every fall from grace—
and she meets herself.

She is the moment just before,
a soft repose,
a breath withheld,
a breath set free.

She is
Between Breathes—
and she meets herself.

Oh darling—
there's no time...
Between Breathes—
and she meets herself.

Gasp.
July 1 2015
stillhuman Jun 24
Cig
They tasted better with you
and I could kiss the space
your lips had been
the same ones that would turn to me
and be so sweet

And you would spit out the smoke
from talking lips
take a pause and concentrate
for it tasted the same as me
sharing a cigarette had never felt so intimate
My fingers vibrato, cello’s curve of your hip—
Her sighs answer, honest— a long slow bow.
Tuned flush swells— thumb dips,
Our love’s raw truth, adagio.

Ocean’s scent— bodies press,
breath syncs, a deep tremolo.
Our love’s pulsing truth confessed,
two strings rupturing— pianissimo.
somedumbbitch Jun 13
He stirs, slowly...
watching the spoon,
break the fog,
settling over his morning cup...
opalescent eyes,
scanning the sleepy blue,
of daytime horizons.

Porcelain fingers, shift
into hard, ceramic claws;
first smoothing up,
snuggly cotton pantlegs,
and then running them down,
forcing his navied thighs, to separate.
The fork, in the road,
as I crawl in, between them,
headlights, and a glossy smile,
on full beam.

He jerks, with surprise
at the unexpected motion,
lips, arrested in a subtle purse--
a pinched pink,
pouted gently, outwards

to blow away the steam
gathering, around tense fingers.
I mimic the tension,
with my own, slaking lips.

Hands shift,
to cup him,
and slide, upwards.
Suddenly, he needs two,
to grip the mug.

My tongue, slicks out,
wetly,
to follow his ascent,
as he stands, upright;
neapolitan soldier,
with the suede skin.  

The heat,
gathers,
in my palms
flushing his thighs,
and it circulates, warmly
against flickering flesh;
mouth, moving limberly
to drink him,
under the table.

My feral eyes,
fix his drunken ones,
as we both take each other,
in.

"I hope you saved some cream, for me?
Good morning, honey."
☕🍶
Damocles Jun 13
I don’t need to own you,
When I enter the room
And you drop to your knees
Like Sunday worship.

So instinctive,
Mouth agape and tongue extended
You need with a neediness that paints your eyes with greed
Emeralds shining up at me

And who am I to deny,
Such a good girl for me?
I agree, you deserve a treat
So stay still while I feed.
TW: Adult content. involving consensual adults please do not read under 18.
Damocles Jun 5
A voluptuous, scrumptious, and delectable
Drawing of hunger, an insatiable hunger.

Hourglass-shaped,
Her waist pinched,
Designed to be held by sturdy hands,
Dancing dainty fingers trace
Ample mounds of bountiful, bouncy hills, topped with soft pastel pink rounds
That draws hunger, an insatiable hunger.

She lies upon a sea of red silk,
A stark contrast to her white,
Like wine and milk. Thirsty, she yearns for a taste.

Her thighs parted like petals,
Revealing the delicate blush of a dawn-kissed bloom.
Carnation pink petals glisten with clear morning dew,
Perfuming the room with intoxicating poignance,

Emerald eyes call to the distance,
A reward for his resilience.
He takes his time to crawl,
Like a hungry wolf stalking prey,
His tongue slashed through gently parted lips.

Pressed thick upon smooth, slicked pedals,
He tastes hints and echoes of her nectar,
Finding little kisses pecked to find her hooded specter.
He flogs while lapping sloppily,
A butterfly to a flower:

Draining,
Drawing patterns, 

Writing love letters,
Breathlessly.

Until his hunger is met with fullness,
And she lies spent, wrapped in red silk,
Drizzled upon her like a garnish,
Strawberry cheesecake.
TW: adult themes meant for 18+
Inspired by looking at **** renaissance paintings while eating strawberries.
She entered
like dusk slips through curtains—
slow, deliberate,
never asking
to be noticed.

The lamp flickered.
He watched
as her earrings swung
like pendulums
measuring silence.

She undressed
without touching a seam.
The room tilted
as if memory
had gravity.

His fingers hovered
over the curve of her hip
like a prayer
he no longer believed in.

They moved
like fire learning
its shape
in a spoon of oil—
quiet first,
then chaos.

Somewhere,
a rain began
they could not hear
but tasted
in the salt between breaths.

Then—
stillness.

Not peace,
but aftermath.
She lay back,
a wound wrapped in moonlight.

He stared
at the crack
in the ceiling—
noticing it
for the first time.

The room smelled of iron
and orange peel,
as if something holy
had burned
and vanished.

She left
before the hour turned.
Her body stayed
for days
in the folds of the sheet—
a crease,
a heat,
a warning.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
She didn’t speak—her skin carried the storm.
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