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.

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.

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.

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.

I’m awakened with fluttering eyelids,
warmth already draped over me—
tendrils of light reaching,
bursting into every gap they find.
Beckoning me closer,
into the bright,
basking in the touch
that leaves spots on my skin
where I’ve been kissed too much.
A little note for down the road.
We flirted too long, but did so with ease.
Now I’m left in an ever-blushing state!
Oh! The Sun is such a tease!