The stories I could not tell,
got lost somewhere in my unfrequented attic,
you were never expected
to come bare with your expediency.
Now with a world of time to exhume
I find neatly folded letters littered with caution
and all of them on the look out, it dawns on me now.
My hurried scan is a culprit on its own.
Never can sit undisturbed to prune your mind
and to fathom the depth of your suspicion.
No point in ruining an ending
which the audience, anyhow, would not like
in these terrible times of tragic endings.
They even commit suicide to live happily ever after.
If I was a dark Manto, breathtaking Munir Naizi, Jon Elia the cynic or
Saghar the graveyard poet,
I would tear this bliss apart in a stride.
Get your letters published
make a name for myself
and leave you with pointed fingers,
all disheveled,
with a very broken marriage and
setting your motherhood on fire.
Here I will come across winks, smiles and pats on my back
for delivering home an ode to manhood.
