आखिर तक वो बस बातें करता था
कुछ तो कमी थी, क्यों बातें करता था

नज़र में उसकी अजब हसरत होती थी
जब वो अपने कल की बातें करता था

उसके क़िस्से सुनो तो बस सुनते जाओ
क्या अलहदा किस्म की बातें करता था

मुझको तो बस उसकी एक लत सी थी
वो इतना ग़म ख़्याल की बातें करता था

इतना तो सुख़नवर ज़रूर था यार मेरा
अक्सर मस ' अला हाल की बातें करता था

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Me : Oooooo nice! Is that how you twerk?
Home : Sorry! Come again.
Me : Twerk. The shaking. You are twerking right?
Home : Run idiot. That ain't me. That's what you call an
earthquake.

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It's almost ironic, how sometimes, conversations restricted to monosyllables, are enough to tell the entire story.

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"I spend days,
Nowadays,
Waiting for you,
Just come back
look at my eyes
And take me away
somewhere,
Far from me..."

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तुम्हे दर्द से भी इश्क़ होने लगेगा
अपना कुछ वक़्त मेरे नाम कर के तो देखो।

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"Because, it's unplanned."

"Just that?"

"We aren't ready yet."

"As if we were ready for marriage."
.

.

-

"Oh, you noticed. I hoped you wouldn't."

"What happened? Did one get stolen?"

"No, actually I have two right feet."

(Continued in the caption)

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"I feel stranded outside, naked,
on a very long winter night
ever since you went
alongwith my warmth."

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• Bench Tales

Among the group of pearls, he was a multicoloured gemstone. Never in my wildest imagination I picturized myself to get so deeply attached to someone that I would struggle to find methods to tighten ties with them.

//Full Story in Caption

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