When the time comes,
You may look for Qais in the arms of Laila—
for it’s written- by him, in her name.

Never mind the voice that reasons nor the headlines that argue.
Never mind what the locals tell you.
When the time comes,
You may look for Qais in the arms of Laila.

For it’s written-
his soul rests where his quest ends.

where all of his quests end.

“La Illah, Laila.” (translates to: "no god, but one god")

I start where your fingers soften
I rest in your breath
My existence is an ounce of blood that runs through you all the same
You're my beginning and my end

(Dedicated to Hassan, my last drop of tear)

If you read text like you sip wine- first with your eyes,
and then, the heart

You’re bound to be intoxicated by the written word.

But in that moment’s worth of peace-
whilst he who’s died a thousand deaths

dies another and this, his last

Consider it a privilege- that of having known life.
And to have it known in the words of those who’ve lived— not enough.

I wait in anticipation,
for god's own diet.
It must be on its way- she must be on her way.

Somewhere along the hall,
my entire diction is placed and dusted as a prized possession-
For she knows my Atwood from my Manto.

And ever so often,
my resting abode feels like the comfort of a thousand feathers.

I wonder how she does that with two paper-thin sheets, one cushion, and a single blanket.
- Must be her attempt at magic.

In any case, my mother is an artist.
The one that hides in plain sight.

Her audience today, is old and grey
Some having lost the sense of sight even!

But there she goes, holding an invisible paintbrush.
“So what if I was married into a house devoid of art?”

She says,
The world is her canvas.
And myself? all her colors.

I see the bright of yellow, I see it stem from green
I see it glimmer in the first light of day
But sunflowers I do not see.

It might as well be a cloth hanging dry
or a dazzling pinwheel soaring high
To no fault of their own but mine,
I’m inescapably caught in this ravine of time

Oh, dear!
Is this how living without you is to be?
Tired of resisting and having fought,
Questioning what is for what is not.

Afraid of the dark, I trembled under the night sky
for he promised to meet me under the stars.

Speak of me in those silences you share
Speak of me as your wildest affair

For those petals of red you kiss ever so often
Need to know your utter despair

"There is someone else", I hear you say
can you cut me open some other day?

If I were her and she was me
Had it saved me from this misery?

If I call out your name, one last time
would you look back as you promised that night?

For I’d take even the love born out of despair
I'd even daydream in this nightmare
Only if it were to make me your wildest love affair
Oh! for once, would you please dare?

We can't understand each other,
can we?

You'd say one thing, I'd hear another
Both, lost in translation.

Why is it then,
that we always find our way back?
Aren't you as tired as I am?

Perhaps there lies an answer-
somewhere beyond the realm of your eyes

If only I could get past the way you see me
I'd realize.

There's an old poem on love and life without-
A classic really! And a very boring one at that.

You know the kind only the wise would fall for?
Yes, that.

But take me for a fool, the one that I am, for I can't find you in it.
Neither within the metaphors nor the words that I'm so much in love with.

What you are to me is its very last line, where all of it comes to an end-
When I can finally turn the page and hope only for a better indulgence of time.

The world is like that one old poem on love and life without- and you, my dear, are its very last line.

I'll keep you in my prayers,
She said as they parted ways.
He scoffed and he mumbled
On love he rumbled
Light kissed his forehead for years to come
He lived in her prayers, while she was worshipped in his words
As is the gamble of love that's lost- if you've sunk, you've swum.

A shade of yellow, a little too strong
Beneath the blue, they lay for long
"What do you like about me?" He posed
'myself' said she
For the way you see me, I am

I like that very much

Feel it.
Don't barely say those words, hymn to the rhythm of the solemn touch - for you may not have tomorrow but you have today.
Feel the fingers, hold his hand.
Hold and don't let go.
Absorb every little detail that the light touches upon.
Right from that mole on the back of his neck to the way he tilts his head sideways ; to hear you utter the least - to take it all in.
I wouldn't know, I didn't notice.

Why don't you sing to me?
Something for the night,
Or the void after -
A soundtrack to my life
A rhythm to which I'll smile astray
Before midnight, before tomorrow, before we go-
A waltz for the night.

And I'll write for you-
Every page a tear
You're lovely, my dear.
Only a fool, one such like me-
Could hurt even after they recover
For not only have I loved you-
I've died with you.

What's left of me is a kin for the kind
Static yet exemplary
I'd blink as to his wrinkled smile
Like a shutter that captures

The next in my memoir, those that make way
I'll feel, I'll love, I'll laugh
For it takes only one, not all
To hold me when the night befalls


Before midnight, before tomorrow, before we go-
Why don't you sing to me?