ہمارے بعد تم کو یہ جہاں کیسا لگے گا

To Her.
ستاروں سے بھرا یہ آسمان کیسا لگے گا
ہمارے بعد تم کو یہ جہاں کیسا لگے گا
Please, ask me about my woes, my unbearable tantrums, my mood-swings. They might appear to be correlated but they are two separate entities.

Please ask me to keep on writing you love notes that you keep folded in your secret pocket of bag, with the creases on the crumbled paper aligning the wrinkles on my face. My fingers might have as well forgotten how to sculpt love in a steep metaphor but i still remember how to dress your eyes with the consonants of my poem like the crackle in the giggle of the person skipping rope by the cross road. These fingers only linger in the ghost town now, trying to keep their pure soul away from the filth of ignorance hate and prejudice , holding his breath and jumping over the puddle of jealousy. These fingers only linger on the unfinished stories that hold me captive like the trembling voice of an opera singer who fades into horror as his shrill voice fails to break the glass of his audience, like the shivers running down the raw spine of a immortal entity.

Please let go of my hands, stop folding my fingers into a fist, a fist that could wreck your ugly little smile that you put on your fake face, stop telling me how i could bleed iron through the cut i just had by punching at the wall, how i could carve the iron into my armor, stop telling me that i am good at protecting myself and please oh please let me be vulnerable till i collapse, keeping my hands open still and my cracked palms exposed to the poison of ur sight.

When i smile pinch me, scratch of my skin, destroy me, rip me off, suffocate me, drown me, slaughter me, slice open my throat or yet better kiss me and well isn’t all that the same ?

When i close the door and undress your soul, unclasping my secrets to the flowers of your mouth, showering my mercy on your soul stop me right away throw me off you barge off through the door just before you smash the vase kept on the side table, on the mirror before telling me all it was, was a revenge story, a revenge from all my past lovers for being loyal, for loving them, for existing.
— STI

At last but not least remembering these lines all i can say Is , O’ Ghalib, you cut me like a knife every single time I hear you. And then, you make me want to hurt a little more, all over again.
Dil Hi To Hai Na Sang-o-Khist
Dard Se Bhar Na Aaye Kyon?
Royenge Hum Hazaar Baar
Koi Hamein Sataye Kyon?
It’s only a (my) heart, not a stone or brick,
Why should it not be overcome with pain?
I will cry a thousand times,
Why should one torment(stop) me?
© aclockdies
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