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.
© Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.
This work may not be used, copied, or shared in any form without written permission from the author.
A poem about memory, grief, and the small things we keep — and finally let go.