Her Existence

Her existence drives me crazy.

She has a peculiar way of starting a conversation, which is mostly one-sided for her fingers type faster and I must wait 'til she goes offline. Okay, wait. That was a bad start!

She will speak one of the most beautiful languages ever laced. Urdu. Come up with words I'll find strange yet delightful. She will keep me wondering what they mean, finding this weird joy in my eagerness. Her quotes and poetry pierce through my flesh and reside in my marrows. Teasing and demolishing the tender parts of it. Her tales of ardor and depravity and desolation are a major throwback to my past lovers, even if I didn't have any. Her voice, a mason jar of echoes dipped in honey. The ends of her lips clutch onto words of shāyari, ready to let go of them and raze the heavens in my heart. I know I dare not read or listen to her lines, for she would love to know that I soaked what's in between. I'm least surprised to see her call her photos a collection of "cheap" photography. Have a look at them one too many times, and it's priceless. But this damsel will agree to disagree. 1997 to infinity; living the time of everyone's lives. I have to have the privilege to marry the small bouts of happiness, before she asks me to. And I know she will. Apparently, this woman does not belong to this century. Wearing bangles in the age of fitbits. Hijabs instead of fancy hats. In this time, she is a gorgeous devastation, and I often try to find myself in the core of it. That's one of the reasons why they named her after a fierce animal. Untamed. And I bet anybody would surrender to such a unique and insane wilderness. Young Lioness, makes me mad.