Your hand
moved like silence
on my shoulder—
not asking,
not waiting.

The sheet
slid down
just enough
to forget its name.

Your breath
settled between
my ribs
and the window.

We didn’t speak.
The night
had already
been told.

The fan spun
above bare skin
and promises
no one made.

You traced a path
below my navel—
a sentence
you never said aloud
but I remembered
for days.

Later,
you left
without shoes.
Your steps
soft
as permission.

I lay there,
the sky warming,
your warmth
still turning
in the folds.

- THE END -

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