Humari khataah kya hai?

Humari sharaarat zara kijiye ga maaf,

magar churake kahun chand lafzon mien saaf saaf...

toh samjho nahi ye koi khayal naya,

ki unhone jaise hasske dekha humara dill unka ghulaam ban gaya..

Samjhao toh hume humari ghustaakhi kya. hai,

vo sikha gaye ki tadpaane ki adaa kya hai...

tair-e-bismil toh hum qaraar hue hai,

toh isme tere roothne ki vajah kya hai?

Gam-e-hayaat se hume parwah nahi,

iss paagalpan ki taa'zir milegi toh bass yahin..

Humare lehje mien musalsal uska ziqr bayaan hua karta hai,

unse dur kare hume khuda bhi uss gunaah se darrta hai...

Bayaan karu unhe qaid jo khayal rakhe hai,

unki nawaazish ke saamne meri zabaan chale itni meri jurrat kahan hai?

Dur se hi unpe hum aise fanaa hue hai,

asiir ho gaye unke pyaar mien toh isme humari khataah kya hai?

Until next time,
Love always, always
S

Comments

Miles of space to play with

People like to believe the universe is some grand orchestrator, shuffling fate cards like a moody blackjack dealer. But sometimes, it just sits back with popcorn and watches two people fumble their way into a slow-burning disaster that smells vaguely of espresso and unresolved tension. Enter Nat and Miles, two souls with more chemistry than a freshman lab fire, and just about as much common sense. By now, I assume you know Miles a bit. So allow me to introduce Nat. Nat. Now there’s a piece of work the universe clearly cooked up on a cheeky day. All sharp wit, unreadable playlists, and the kind of elegance that doesn’t try, it just is. She walks into a room like she already knows the ending but still watches everyone else catch up. She’ll dissect a business pitch, write a blog that punches through your chest, and still look vaguely annoyed that you haven’t figured out how she takes her coffee (strong, like her opinions, with a splash of skimmed milk and quiet judgment). But don’t be foo...

Peaking, aren’t you?

Damn it, kid. Damn it!!! I called out into the air again, like a fool throwing pebbles into the sea, waiting for some kind of ripple to reach me. It’s ridiculous, really, the way I try to fold him into the corners of my mind, like he’s some half-finished poem I can’t leave alone. He doesn’t know it, but he’s here. Lingering in the quiet spaces of my thoughts, a stubborn thread of smoke that refuses to clear. And maybe I’m just drunk on the idea of him watching, standing at some distant edge, like a stray star in a sky I don’t understand. It’s not love—not even close. It’s not even a crush, but something itchier, like a splinter under the skin. He’s a question that doesn’t need answering, a riddle I didn’t ask for but can’t help trying to solve. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t belong in my world, not really. He’s so bloody different, somewhat playful and careless in that “all neon confidence and cheap dopamine” kinda way, you know? I’m quiet, sharper around the edges, but somehow he...

a few more Miles than just the Moon and back (:

There are two kinds of people in the world: the ones you meet, exchange pleasantries with, and promptly forget the moment they leave the room—and then there are the ones who, for no logical reason at all, get stuck in your head like a poorly-written pop song . The kind that shouldn’t linger but does, that worms its way into your subconscious, popping up at odd moments—when you’re tying your shoelaces, when you’re waiting for the kettle to boil, when you’re halfway through a meeting pretending to care about synergy but are actually wondering what someone drinks on a Saturday night. People never really choose which category someone falls into, and if Miles had been given the choice, he probably would’ve filed Her under forgettable and called it a day. Except he wasn’t given the choice. It wasn’t love at first sight, (blows raspberries) or even admiration. Nothing theatrical, no fireworks, no grand epiphany. Just five seconds. A glance across a jazz bar, a half-empty drink, a laugh h...

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