Some Nights.

Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark. The moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed. You laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her- how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And as the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.

A Poem For The Boy I’m Not Sure Exists.

I dream of you every night, 

And it’s always the same;

You sneak into my semi conscious brain

With the subtle footsteps 

Of foamy seawaves on a very windy day,

But, that’s okay,

I mean, writing you love letters before I even knew you existed?

I might not know what subtle is, 

But if you open the dictionary to the word that’s the opposite of it, 

You’re gonna find my picture.

See, you visited me one night,

So is it really my fault if I only sleep in hopes that you will maybe once again?

But I only catch glimpses of your shadow here and there,

I chase your footsteps across the ruins of my mind,

And I think I’m only going around forming crop circles in the blue flower fields.

But then, I wake up in the mornings to 4 PM sunbeams, golden and lovely, scattered all over my pillows and on my cheeks,

And really, I think you need to stop playing this hide and seek with me,

Just drop over into my reality the way I drop my pencils all over the place,

And believe me, love, I’ll draw you like it’s the only thing I’ve ever lived for,

Because that’s true, 

And I’ll make you my best masterpiece. 

Just the way you are.

I sleep with the nightlight on these days,

And my father looked at me like he didn’t know who I was anymore the next morning 

After he saw the faint light peek out under my door one night, 

But you change me into someone I never knew I wanted to be,

And I’m here waiting for you with my nightlight on,

In hopes that maybe if you sneak by into my dreams again, 

I’ll wake up with your laughter streaked across my eyelids, 

In hopes that maybe I’ll see it clearer, 

Remember it this time, 

Sew your crescent lips into the dark split seconds of each blink,

Hold it close every time the world goes black.


Image found on Tumblr.


I used to think, some days

We were cursed forever,

The two of us,

Playing pretend,

Throwing our hearts away,

Over and over and over,

And yet, never

To each other,


You chased after another,

While I withered here,

Keeping the beast inside locked and caged,

But now, it’s too late.

The cage weakened,

It broke open,

While I was too occupied

Collecting starbeams in a jar

For you.

So now,

When you see me okay,

Just know,

You’ve only got

Yourself to blame


And I might still have my bad days,

And I might still wake up at 4 in the morning,

Out of breath and suffocating,


On the memories you have left me

But you don’t need to know that.

You don’t need to know that

You don’t know me anymore,

You don’t need to know

About these new masks I’ve gotten,

And how they feel like home,

You don’t need to know

About the lies that slip through my teeth,

So effortlessly,

You don’t need to know

About the hole in my gut,

That leaves me empty,

And yet so much lighter,

You don’t need to know

About how I’ve broken my promise too,

And forgiven myself for it;

I’ve changed.

Image credits: Shafaq Mujtaba

Out Of Time.

The wheels have started to turn.
Or rather, the wheels have started to slow down, they’ve started to stop and the clock has started its final countdown.

Everyone can feel it, it’s in the air now.
We’ve run out of time, my love has run out of time.

We’re all getting caught up in frantic attempts to tie the ends of our own tapestries perfectly, but while doing that, we’re leaving so many other ends untied, frayed, inexplicably knotted.
And I guess that is how it will remain for the rest of forever, reminding us of our choice each morning, coming back to us with the taste of black coffee, familiar and bitter all at once, reminding us of how we chose the world over ourselves, and ourselves over the world together somehow at the same time, how we chose to be selfish.
You see, it isn’t even a choice anymore; we don’t have an option, it’s been forced down upon us by society, and to choose anything else would be nothing but pure foolery right now.

So why is it that I’d still choose you over everything else?

Image taken from here. What a great photography blog!
And I know I only post black and white images with my blog posts usually, and I’m so sorry I just think they’re really pretty.
Black and white brings out beauty in even mundane things, it’s magical.


The Search For Madness.

“It was a hot summer night, right in the middle of July, the day I decided to run away.
I’d had enough, you know? Didn’t want to be pushed around by anyone anymore.
I knew what I wanted in life, I knew I was different, and I was ready to go satiate my wanderlust, find my destiny.
And what was that?
It was to look for madness.
Pure madness.
The kind that is untouched by greed and untainted by grief.
The kind of madness that is alluring and heartbreaking at the same time, the madness that exists in the stars and in the stargazers, in the moon and it’s worshipers, the kind that only increases with the coming dawn, fueled by the golden of the morning.
The madness of the waves as they reach out to kiss the shore over and over again, of the ocean as it tries to caress the moon in vain.
Sweet madness, filled with melancholy.
I thought I had it all figured out, how I’d catch the morning bus out of that sleepy old town, off to big cities and adventures in the pursuit of madness. But the stars has their own plan for me, because sitting in the long green grass of the park I had played in all my life, I found you.
Eyes closed but facing upwards, you were the definition of peace; you looked as if you were a part of the grass and flowers itself, rooted to the ground and so, so still, but then you opened your eyes and I fell headfirst into their grey chaos. Your expression held such agony, it clenched at my heart, and yet I was mesmerized, enchanted, cursed, unable to look away.
That night, I went looking for madness and found it.
But what I didn’t realize was that madness could ever be so beautiful, so dangerous, that madness could ever be you.”

Image taken from here.



Hell And Heaven.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said

In a play

That hell

Is other people,

But then,

My dear

Isn’t heaven too?

In the questioning looks,

In the coy smiles,

In the inside jokes,

And the twinkling eyes?


A bliss exists,

Seldom found anywhere else,

But in those simple moments

Where nothing exists,

But for you

And him.

Makes you wonder

Doesn’t it, darling,

Are hell and heaven

Really as different

As they are made out to be

If both exist

In the grays of his eyes?


Image taken from here.


Human Forgetfulness.

We are humans, terribly forgetful creatures with a touch of sadism.
We rarely remember.
We mostly forget.
We remember bitterly, how vulnerable love made us feel.
We forget how it was vulnerability that fueled our passion, passion that could have caused us to burn cities and drown continents in our desperation, passion that destroyed us, ate away at our insides.
We remember how shattered love made us feel after it abandoned us.
We forget how it gave us the courage to do what we’d never done before, the strength to endure till our very last breath.
We remember tears, fights, wilted roses and heartbreak.
We forget coy smiles and unstoppable laughter, sleepless nights and the thrill of having inside secrets that only made sense to us.
What we forget, we cease to understand.
And what we cannot understand, we berate mercilessly, we ridicule ruthlessly.
So, we laugh. We laugh at the Romeos and Juliets of the world, the star crossed lovers, the tragic couples, we laugh at their passion.
We call them rash, we call them impulsive.
Stupid,sentimental, desperate.
But we’ve forgotten what it was to be one of them; young and rash, impulsive and desperate.
We’ve forgotten what it meant, to throw away all caution to the wind, to not give a rat’s piss about what the world thought of us.
We’ve forgotten what it meant to be in love.

Painting by a very talented young artist and great friend, Waleed Ahmad.


Off-track Musings.

I’ve always been able to tell when a thunderstorm is on the horizon, even up to a day before it occurs, and I’ve never been afraid of thunderstorms even as a little kid.
But tonight I am.
I’m scared, and I’m terrified.
The thunder resounds in my head until my heart is beating hard enough to match each peal, and I clench my eyes in an effort to calm down the erratic beating but tears leak out in torrents more furious than those pouring outside, the dark clouds I so adore have covered the beautiful full moon and it feels like I have no guidance tonight without the moonlight and the stars.
My room feels strangely lifeless without the moonbeams entering through the window and dancing in elaborate patterns on the rug on my floor, the one you bought from an old woman who could see auras, who shied away from me and my colorless void of an aura; you brought it from her anyways, I remember you calling her delusional under your breath; after all, how could I, of everyone out there have a colorless aura, I, who couldn’t live without colors, who couldn’t bear monotony and blandness?
Little did you know at the time that she was right. All those colors I surrounded myself with were nothing but a desperate attempt to obtain the colors I lacked inside, but oh, I wasn’t supposed to think about you at all, I get off-tracked so easily these days.
Ironic, isn’t it, because if I could focus on one thing, it would be on getting you out of my head, my system, my life, but it isn’t helping, I can’t sleep anyways, so I get up, and despite my fears, climb out of the window to the roof, the rain pelting me with your memories with each raindrop hitting my bruised skin. I sit on the roof edge, trying not to think about how you’d always plead with me to get off the edge, you were afraid I’d fall down.
The rain makes it hard for me to light my cigarette, but I try again and again, and after countless unsuccessful attempts, I fling the pack and the lighter off the roof into the grass below, and with nothing else to do, I just sit there, I sit there shivering, soaking and drowning in your memories.

Image taken from here.