Maybe because the rain doesn't judge.
It doesn't ask me why I'm crying, it doesn't tell me to stop.
It just falls quietly, and when my tears slip down,
the rain takes them in, makes them its own,
until no one , not even I , can tell them apart.
The rain knows more than I do.
This time the words didn't escape my lips,
they escaped as tears,
and disappeared into the downpour
before I could understand them.
Maybe it's better I don't know what they meant.
Maybe not.
I watched my tears fall,
and wondered if the rain itself
was someone else's grief.
What anguish must it take
to drown the whole earth?
I wondered what he felt…
and for a moment,
his sorrow carried mine away.
I don't know how to tell you how much I love you.
Not because I have no words
but because words will always fall short.
Still, I'll try.
I love you , not in the loud, movie kind of way.
But in the quiet way my eyes find you first,
in every room, in every crowd.
In the way your name feels like home in my mouth.
In the separate gallery in my phone,
worth more than the Kohinoor itself.
It's in the way I remember the little things
you forgot you even said.
In the way I can hear your smile,
and also hear when you're hiding tears behind "I'm fine."
I love you in moments you'll never notice
when I choose to listen instead of speak,
when I'd trade a thousand sunrises
just to watch you laugh once more.
When even the peacocks would stop to watch,
because next to you, their beauty feels small.
It's not grand gestures or perfect timing.
It's not fireworks or fate.
It's quieter.
It's truer.
It's mine to give, and yours to keep.
And it's more than love
it's belonging.
It's wanting to stay when the days turn dark,
to be your shelter when the world feels heavy.
It's knowing that in every version of my life,
I'd still choose you
even in the ones where I lose everything else.
So no,
I don't know how to tell you how much I love you.
I only know how to live it.
I keep things to tell you.
Not because they're important
most of them aren't
but because they'd feel incomplete if you didn't hear them.
Somehow, my day feels wrong
if I haven't seen your name pop up,
if I haven't heard you laugh.
I notice when you're quieter than usual.
When you say you're fine,
but your voice says something else.
And even when you're not here,
you're everywhere
in the songs I skip halfway through because they remind me too much,
in the places I look for you without realizing.
I'd choose sitting beside you in silence
over any crowded room.
It's not something I say out loud.
It's just there
in the way I stay,
in the way I listen,
in the way I show up.
You'd know it if you looked close enough.
She was afraid of the dark, so I burned myself to become her light.
She said she loved flowers, so from my ashes, I let them bloom.
Like a phoenix, I rose again only to feel her hand in mine once more.
I know I love writing about you. Even though I've lost you, I still hope I can weave you back with the thread of my words , this time, just to be mine. A place where distance doesn't exist, and neither do the problems that broke us.
But every time I write about you, I feel guilty. Someone as pure and magical as you cannot be contained in words. To describe you feels like a crime, as if language will always fail you.
And yet, if it is a crime, then let me be guilty. Let me go to jail, or even to hell , if it means that, in some small way, I could still keep a piece of you with me.
We've always been told that parallel lines never meet.
But shift your perspective, and you'll see them
going on together, side by side, until infinity.
Secants, on the other hand, cross once
only to part ways forever.
If you ask me, I'd rather be the parallel lines.
Even if I can't have you,
I'd still choose to walk with you
all the way to the end of life.
Because what greater hell could there be
than to hold you once,
only to never hold you again?
Someone once asked me, "Why gift flowers when they'll wither and die?" At first, I agreed , what sense does it make to treasure something so fleeting?
But then it struck me. We don't run away from people just because they won't live forever. We love them, we hold them, we live alongside them as best as we can.
Because life was never about permanence , it was always about presence. To see beauty, to feel love, to cherish it while it lasts.
Only then do you truly touch the magic of living.
I used to believe The Starry Night was the most beautiful painting in existence. Nothing, I thought, could ever rival it. Then I saw you.
It felt as though the gods themselves had painted you with quiet care , each stroke patient, deliberate, so that you could be exactly as you are. Your smile carries a warmth that could stir even the stillest heart to life again. Your hair moves with the ease of waterfalls, soft and effortless. And your heart… it shines with a purity that makes even the diamond seem ordinary.
To me, you are not just beautiful , you are living proof that sometimes the most breathtaking masterpiece is not on a canvas, but standing before us.
She wasn't the kind of girl who turned every head when she walked into a room. Her beauty wasn't loud like that.
It was quieter, softer the kind you only noticed when you really looked. Like when you see a butterfly resting on a flower. You don't call it stunning or glamorous. You just pause, smile, and think, how pretty. And for some reason, your heart feels lighter, like the world remembered to be kind for a second.
That's what she was like. She didn't need the perfect dress or a thousand eyes on her. She could be in the simplest clothes, hair falling loose across her cheek in that stubborn tangle she never bothered to fix and somehow it made her more beautiful, not less. Like the imperfection itself was part of the design.
Her smile… God, her smile. It wasn't perfect, but it was real. It had this warmth that stayed even after she stopped smiling, the kind that made you wait for it to return, like a song you didn't want to end. And when she laughed, really laughed, it reached her eyes in a way that made you forget what you were about to say.
She was smart sharper than most people I'd ever met. But then there were moments when she'd do something so absent-minded, so ridiculously lacking in common sense, that you couldn't help but laugh. And instead of making her look less, it made her feel closer. Like even brilliance had its cracks.
But what stayed with you wasn't just how she looked or how clever she was. It was how she made you feel. Being around her was like being near a quiet fire on a cold night. You didn't even realize how much you were leaning into the warmth until you were already there. Hours slipped by without you noticing when you talked to her. And sometimes, you didn't even need to talk. You could just sit, watching her, and it still felt like you hadn't wasted a second.
She wasn't flawless. She wasn't meant to be. But she didn't have to try she just was. And even as she was, she was already more than enough.
"How much do you love me?" she asked.
Not like a test — more like a whisper that didn't want an answer.
I could've said a thousand things.
Could've told her about how her smile messes with my heartbeat,
or how silence feels softer when she's near.
But I just looked at her , really looked
and said,
"Try stabbing me… you'll see blood with your name written all over it."
She laughed, called me dramatic.
But I wasn't.
Because love "real love" is not about flowers or perfect words.
It's about the madness that hides behind calm eyes,
the kind that makes you want to protect someone
even when they're the one who hurt you.
Maybe I don't love her like poets write about love.
But I love her the way fire loves air
it can't exist without it.
I started writing because there was a story
I had already imagined with her.
Every chapter was clear in my head
the laughter, the silences, the growing old together.
But the story was left unfinished.
Not because it was weak,
but because it was too good to rush.
The world paused,
imagining what it would feel like
if such a story were its own.
And in that imagining,
it forgot to turn the page.
So now I write,
hoping the world will remember
to finish the story
my heart had already begun.
Maybe it was not love at first sight.
Maybe it was never meant to be.
Maybe I was only meant
to understand you
the way a painter studies his art,
the way Mozart understands his music.
Maybe God planned the unveiling slowly,
not all at once,
so I could witness the beauty He created
a beauty not seen in a single glance,
nor understood in a thousand years,
a beauty that deepens
every time it is looked at.
Ishq ne deewaangi maangi, hum deewaane ho baithe
Usne sukoon maanga, hum naseem ban baithe
Usne aasmaan maanga, hum mahtaab le aaye
Usne dard maanga, hum shayar ban baithe
Some days I'll love you in metaphors,
in the language poets borrow from the stars.
Other days I'll love you plainly,
without ornament, without reason.
Some days I'll trace your beauty the way an artist would,
deliberate, searching, trying to name what light does to your face.
Other days I'll just stand in awe of your soul
and have no words for it at all.
Some days I'll love you in how we laugh together,
so loud that it echoes through the universe.
Other days I'll love you in the quiet
of just being glad you exist.
Some days I'll write you letters
you may never read.
Other days I'll just sit beside you
and let the silence say it.
Some days I'll love the version of you the world sees,
bright, assured, held together.
Other days I'll love the parts you keep hidden,
the weight you carry when no one's watching.
But every day,
I'll love you.
Tere yaad me zamana bhool gaye,
Likha toh bohot par batana bhool gaye,
Shikayatein toh tumse bohot thi,
but tumhari ek jahalak me hum shikayatein bhool gaye
Teri yaadein kamaal karti hai,
Ankhon me tu aur labon me tera naam rakhti hai,
Zubha kehti hai theek hai hai, raat ko jeena haraam karti hai
She was the kind of impossible
that made sense only to my heart.
My mind never stood a chance.
If I were to paint you from memory,
I would only have your eyes.
Not because I didn't see the rest of you
but because everything else faded
the moment you looked at me.
Your smile, your hands, the way you moved through rooms
all of it dissolved into the space between your pupils and mine.
Maybe that's what happens when you love someone you can't have.
Your mind forgets to catalog anything
except the one thing that might give you away.
So yes,
I would paint your eyes.
Not because they were beautiful
though they were.
But because they were the only thing
I was brave enough to look at,
and the only thing I was too afraid
to ever forget.
Niyyat meri ibadat thi , mohabbat meri dua
Maanga tha rab se ki tujhe baahon me samet loon
Usne hi mujhe pinjhara aur tujhe parinda bana diya
baat hui unse bohot saalon ke baad ,
Unhone poocha humse ki kaise baat karlete ho jaise kuch hua nahi ,
Unhe kaun samjhaye ke hum chal nikle the waqt ke saath ,
lekin udhar hi reh gaye,
Waqt aage badh gaya, humse hua nahi.,
ya yoon kehlo ki jahaan thi uski yaadein,
humne dua maangi ki mar jaayein wahi .
She lied to push me out the door,
a stranger's name to say no more.
And the one who promised she would stay
picked up her words and walked away.
So I'll kill the soft corner, I said,
bury the warmth, learn cold instead.
I thought I could stand beside her still,
just watch her smile, just wish her well.
But she doesn't need me. Not at all.
Not even to catch her if she'd fall.
Maybe love doesn't die , maybe it just
decides you're someone it can't trust.
Or maybe they erase you slow,
until even they don't want to know.
I deleted her name. One tap. It's done.
But the heart holds what the hand has shunned.
The brain keeps every beautiful day
like a curse that refuses to decay.
And that's the wound nobody sees ,
not hating the memories.
Wishing you could, but you just can't hate
something that once felt this great.
So is love cursed? Maybe. Or maybe it's just
a coin with two faces , one joy, one dust.
And someone always loses the toss,
standing alone, counting the cost.
We didn't know
we were living the good old days.
Mornings didn't begin
with alarms,
assignments,
or deadlines waiting on a desk.
They began with a voice outside the gate.
"Are you coming?"
And somehow,
that was enough reason
to get out of bed.
Back then,
the only fear was hearing,
"It's getting late.
Come home."
Not because home was a place we hated,
but because there was still a game unfinished,
still a story being written,
still daylight left to waste.
We never checked the time.
We only checked
whether everyone had arrived.
The future belonged to adults.
We were busy arguing
about who would bat first.
It's strange.
Today I remember
passwords,
deadlines,
and responsibilities.
Back then,
I couldn't remember
where I left my slippers.
Yet somehow,
while we were forgetting everything,
we were learning what would stay forever.
The smell of rain on the ground.
Dust on our clothes.
Scraped knees.
The cricket bat
held together by tape and hope.
The friends who lived
only a few houses away,
but now feel countries apart.
The strange thing about childhood
is that nobody tells you
when it's ending.
Nobody says,
"This is the last evening
you'll all play together."
Nobody says,
"One day,
you'll miss these people
more than the games themselves."
We just went home one evening,
promising to meet again tomorrow.
None of us knew
that tomorrow had already happened.