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?