#quietsadness
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.
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 9:27 AM UTC
Love,
a childs sigh, soft in innocence.
the sun on the heads of the lilies
in the field, the wind in the trees.
Joy,
laughter, high in the morning, low
in the evening. Her hair in the sunset,
ablaze with reflected glory, her eyes,
shining in the light of suns dying; mien
of angels.
Sorrow,
sobs in the stillness of the deepest
night. eyes red rimmed in the
morning light. the sound of a lock
softly clicking; tears on the threshold.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC