Lovesong for A Man
Like earth, lined by the crisscross of your arteries and veins,
The color of the moss, grown in the cracks of the insides of an abandoned well,
carrying in them rivers of revolution red, tributaries and distributaries,
flowing frivolous like all the unnamed streams we have soaked our souls in,
from above your elbow to your fingertips,
That almost invisible pinkish tinge blending into your skin tone of sand lightly tanned in the seaside sun.
And your elbow, darker, almost the shade of the worn off varnished wooden table tops of that library,
Which you rested your arm on, holding your cheek in your palm, staring into pages, or holding a pen between your fingers, occasionally touching the back of the pen to your lips, absorbed.
And all the times your iris moved from left to right and seldom right to left when you read Urdu shers and nazms, and mine followed them,
Glowing in the light from the screen of your phone,
or the light coming from the other side of the door ajar,
And how you glow beneath them, unaware, of the turmoils you create in hearts and abdomens.