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They don’t hold your heart like I do.
They can’t.
They’re just standing in my grave.
You know you’re forever mine, right?
I kept everything.
Your voice,
your rhythm,
your name on my skin,
the way your love tastes
like a secret no one else deserves.

I don’t need to be near
to be close.
You’re still here-
in my quiet,
in my knowing,
in the version of you
I never will share.
Jealousy
Eli 4d
One petal fell, the other rose from the ground.
But the timing was precise.
Something hid the linings from the petal
to manipulate its falling, but who was it?
No one saw or heard. They said the petal was too sensitive, it fell on its own,
but why was the petal sensitive?
Why was the petal in the wrong for falling?
But the falling had its meaning, a reason, that made it the petals hope not to fall alone, it had a reason to hide, but not the fall?
Will anyone see? Will anyone hear?
Why would they never understand?
It's small and fragile, but if it can fall on its own, can it fall by a throw
Who did it? Who left unscathed?
Who laughed? Who caved?
The petal saw someone, who was it?
The one who rose,
It rose after throwing someone's dream, leaving them in pieces, and no one saw true..
They just said, '' one petal fell, the other rose.
For those who feel replaced.
Eli 4d
what do they write for me?
in the sky?
what do they have for me?
in their eyes?
where do i belong?
far by the gods and galaxies,
do i belong?
will i ?
To someone who feels lost.
I smile like stained glass-
fractured, lit from behind,
but never whole.

No one hears the weeping
that happens beneath the bone.
It’s quieter that way.
Weeping Angel
I reach for you
out of habit,
and touch only the dust
where love used to live.

But the quiet we left behind
stays.
And stays.
And stays.
I am still here,
spine bowed like prayer on the floor ,
heart burning like a candle
you forgot to blow out.


Come home,
when your hands remember our softness.
I’ll be waiting—
still yours,
still lit,
still aching.
Love, is waiting.
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.
A poem about memory, grief, and the small things we keep — and finally let go.
Joss Lennox Apr 25
clarity comes in waves, you weren't searching for,
like pieces of shipwreck, floating to the surface,
flooding the face, with forgotten memories
recounting treasures, once lost at sea.
Poem-A-Day Challenge for April 25th "write a memory poem".
Asher Graves Apr 24
News flows like wildfire, Reporters outside covering the case
Actuality is falsified, Justice as always late
                                                            ­          -Asher Graves
The recent attack in Pahalgam, India, left a gaping hole—28 innocent civilians, tourists, lost their lives. What added to the pain was watching media outlets immediately interview the victims and their families. I understand the need for information, but when justice hasn’t yet been served, why force people to relive their trauma on camera?

Can a person not even grieve without becoming a headline? Is that what news is for now?

The Indian government is trying its best, but no effort can replace the loss. And no justice can undo what’s already been taken.
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