(Mujh se pehli si muhabbat meray mehboob na maang)
To expect me to keep pining for you. To be blind
to the sludge that ornamented tradition has left behind.
Yes, I equated your fate with mine. And it felt nice
up to a point. Up to a point.
Your breath still commands mine. But to
breathe in this and this alone. Sorry.
There are other grievances, other indulgences besides you:
machinations that bleed, history that sullies flesh with dirt.