Poetry

“Sometimes we don’t grieve for what we’ve had, but for the hopes that never came.”

One-Sided Love

I loved you quietly,
while you never knew
how many nights
I spent thinking of you.

You were my favorite thought,
but I was never yours.
I waited for your message,
while you were waiting for nothing.

I never blamed you
for not loving me back,
because love is not something
we can force into a heart.

Maybe in another life,
you would have chosen me.
But in this one,
I’ll just love you silently
and learn to let you go. 🥀

Excerpt from my novel Apricity

CHAPTER 3 - MEETINGS

The Jaguar rolled into view, standing out amongst the other plain cars. The air was starting
to get chillier, and people started to fill the streets in Chancery Lane. Some were people
going out for dinner, some were curious tourists, and some were people heading out from
the office. Zac was the latter.
Charles stopped the car, smirking as he reached for his phone. “It’s time. You are ten
minutes early.”
“You seem awfully happy today.” Zac mumbled, brushing his briefcase with a nervous hand.
“It’s nice to see you get humbled.” Charles said in his usual placid tone.
Zac exited the car and crossed his arms.
Walking over to the driver window, he tapped on the glass. “Don’t make me go.”
Charles slid the window down, looking intently at Zac. “You’re doing this for Malik,
remember.”
“And how many times has Malik infuriated me?” Zac sighed.
Charles decided it was best not to answer this and looked pointedly at the Caffe Nero.
Zac dragged his feet to the door. He was not tired. He was reluctant…yet his curiosity carried
him. As he went to open the door, another hand shot forward to take the handle.
“Excuse me?” Zac turned his head a little as the woman spoke. Pretty but frumpy, he
thought to himself.
“S-s-sorry.” The woman stuttered. She stared at his hovering hand. She paused and
removed hers.
“My apologies. Ladies first.” Zac opened the door and motioned for her to enter, letting the
door close behind her. He fixed his tie, straightened his back, and entered confidently. He
strode forward to the back of the café. There was a table with two brown leather chairs. He
sat down and began scrolling through his phone. 1 missed call from Malik. He pressed redial,
waiting for him to pick up. He picked up on the second ring.
“Malik speaking.” A clipped voice answered the line.
“You called me?” Zac leant back into the plush leather, scanning the room furtively. A group
of hipster men arguing and drinking from iced americanos on whether hemp was a better
fabric than cotton, an old woman sipping a hot chocolate musing about her younger days
and a bunch of rich teenage girls downing caramel lattes and comparing expensive skincare
items spread on a table.
“Pari is already there.” Malik paused to chew his gum. “Just have a look around.”
“Have a look around?” Zac looked for a woman his type.
8
Malik normally picked out classy women for him, those with an air of sophistication and
fluttering eyelashes. Dangling earrings, a soft smile and a delicious scent were just a few of
his weaknesses. Despite Zac hating these dates, he had to say that Malik had good taste.
“How is she already here? I don’t see her.”
“Look, I have to go, but please, please for the sake of Allah, just don’t mess this up.” Malik
said quickly. He shoved the phone away from his ear, sighed and then whispered. “Bye,
Zac.”
The line went dead. Zac looked in disgust at his phone screen. Why would Malik be so
nervous about this date anyway? Also, what? Pari’s here? Where on earth would she-
“Zachariah Durrani?” Zac’s eyes widened as he saw the door woman speak.
The sound was like a clear bell.
Frumpy? She stood before him, clutching a tray and her handbag dangling on one arm.
“Yes, that’s me and you must be-” Zac began to rise from his seat and stood up. He put out a
confident hand, almost forgetting that this was a blind date and not a work negotiation.
“Pari. Pari Rahman.” Frumpy quipped, placing two drinks on the table. “Don’t stand up. Sit.”
Pari took a seat and looked him up and down. She made a confused face as Zac sat down in
his chair again.
Zac was dressed in an elegant, well fitted dark grey suit with a matching plain tie. He had
taken off his long black coat and scarf, placing it on the back of his chair. He did notice her
checking him out – he knew inherently had that effect on women and decided it was best
not to smirk. He was infuriatingly handsome, with chiselled features: a sharp jawline, high
cheekbones, full lips, and the unchecked arrogance that came with it. There was no
question about it, but his peridot, gorgeous green eyes were glacial, uninviting and a stark
contrast to his tan skin. His mouth did not once smile.
Pari saw that his arms were folded.
Was he hostile? But why? He hardly knew her.
That was something she wanted to unpack…Her friends would definitely murder her in cold
blood if she messed this date up. Zac was by far the most handsome blind date she had. One
could call that a flex, but to Pari, she was completely horrified. It was one thing to like
handsome men, the ones you would see on social media, the ones who looked perfect and
refined. But it was another thing to have one sat down and looking daggers at her. Why did
Malik even recommend this man to her? Malik was so bubbly, bright, and joyful to be
around. But this man was the exact opposite…
Zac stared at her, his annoyed expression unchanging still, “Are you not going to ask me if I
wanted anything?”
Pari was taken aback.
“I ordered what you wanted.” Pari purred. What stance was she going to take? Leave as
soon as possible or humour the living Adonis before her? “A latte. Malik told me.”
“Well, I don’t want it.” Zac looked bemused.
“Just take it.” Pari clicked her tongue, pushing the latte towards Zac’s end of the table. She
decided to humour him. She figured that this would make a good story to tell her friends
later. “I’m only here because of Afa. She-”
“Afa? Who is that?” Zac glared at the latte, lifting it with a graceful hesitation.
He had heard of the term ‘afa’ before. It was a Bengali term that Malik had told him before.
Doesn’t ‘afa’ meanPari said the following concrete words that floored him, “Ashraqat. Oh god, didn’t Malik tell
you that she’s my older sister?”
She’s Ash’s little sister? No way!
Oh, what fresh hell was this! This was not happening. Zac tried to think of 101 reasons of
how to leave. Malik had put him in deep **** this time! He told himself to calm down. He
was a logical, rational person. All he had to do now is to think of an excuse. Which friend of
his could have an accident right now? Which family member could be in distress? He knew he had to play it cool. There was no way on earth he could risk this Pari telling Ash that he
crumbled and fell apart in front of her darling little sister. After all, he was known for being
calm and collected, a still lake that was unpolluted and wonderful. That was his brand and
that was his sterling reputation.
“You’re Ash’s younger sister? Wow.” Zac managed to say finally. “I mean you two look
similar, but I don’t know how to put it…you seem different from her.”
Pari drank from her cup. The smooth velvety liquid made her feel at ease, as the
marshmallows had already melted into the chocolate. He noticed how Pari relaxed once she
tried her drink – it suited her.
Different? Yes, she knew she was miles apart from her elder sister, but the manner in which
Zac said it was almost insulting. Pari decided to keep the venom out of her mouth before
she spoke. She still had to have manners even if she was going to despise this strange man.
“Ash is my older sister. She’s the reason I’m here.” Pari said, grimacing at the thought of her
strict sister. “I did this out of respect. And, because Malik knows you.”
“You should have made an excuse.” An edge of curiosity crept into Zac’s voice that was
unexpected.
“She doesn’t know what I want. Afa thinks she knows what’s best for me, but she simply
does not.” Pari explained. “She has this crazy idea that we should get married."

‎Poetry is love, sure—
‎but not the kind you
‎will find in local stores,
‎or the supermarket.
‎Not the kind you can sew up
‎when you wake up with
‎a sore throat in the morning.
‎It’s the kind that rips you apart,
‎only to see
‎if you’ll come back together.
‎That kind of love.
‎At least that's how I know it.

You want beauty?
Fine, here’s beauty:
‎It is when you feel regurgitated,
‎and a metallic taste lingers
‎in your mouth.
‎The magnitude of every weight
‎that could be felt and seen,
‎and for some reason,
‎you didn’t break.
‎
‎You will find that poetry
‎isn’t a particularly forgiving
‎or delicate entity.
‎It is the scream that sticks
‎in your neck.
‎It’s the type of blood beneath
‎your nails when you claw
‎your way up from the darkness.
‎
‎For me,
‎if a poem isn’t able
‎to make me compose this way,
‎it still is not enough—
‎if it isn't able to
‎greet me with exhaustion,
‎make me gasp.
‎If it hasn’t smashed through
‎your chest and left you hollow,
‎it means
‎you haven’t been touched—
‎then you haven’t lived it—
‎Not yet.

« If you told me to go rock climbing to prove my love to you. You I woulda die trying, got everything to lose. I’m not tryna play it cool…the « stupid » things I do, I do it for you… Look what you do to me. »

I didn’t expect it
And yet it was ❤️
You didn’t expect this
And yet it wasn’t 💔

MA

Love is scam....is this true?

“The best kind of attraction is when someone makes your soul feel comfortable.”

Good evening all I wanna share another poetry video of mine

<CUSTOM_BOLD>Fighter</CUSTOM_BOLD>

You come to me tired,
your heart is weary and bruised.

You've been fighting battles no one can see.

When you arrive I'll bathe you in love,
Wash away all the dust you still carry from the journey.

I'll tend to your wounds, clean them with care and place a kiss on every one of them.

You'll show me some of your scars,
And maybe you'll tell a story or two.

You've made it through the storm, my love.

You've arrived at home,
Arrived at peace.

Now just rest in my love.