You are my Desi Tharra

My Blue Label drinking friends would say I've sold my soul to Desi Tharra. I have. I admit I've gone rustic. I want to taste that cheap alcohol. That 70-rupee bottle. I want it to hit me instantly. I don't want a tipsy evening. I want a drunk evening. High on cheap liquor and you.

Then let's get cozy. I'll read you a chapter from my unfinished book under my favorite flannel blanket. Hug me from my waist. Smell the patchouli on my neck. Lend me your ear. I promise I'll bare my soul. Listen, as no man has ever listened to me. Because every word I write has meaning. Breathe softly into my ears as I open myself to you.

Note where my words are harsh - someone must have stabbed me there - know my words are bleeding in response. Pay attention to the soft words - someone must have stirred my soul - know my words are humming a Coke Studio Pakistan song there. In case you feel my words are too intense at some point. Don't ask. Know it's you. You must have said something so beautiful. And I'm immortalizing us. Our moments. Our love. Our twisted sense of closeness. Know you are my Patiala Peg. You are the only I take neat and in large quantities. You are the one who gives depth to my empty words and soul.

Don't ask any questions after I'm done. I will leave the pages scattered on the bedsheet. But I'd want you to fold me into your arms thereafter. Please do that. Hold me tight. My words find comfort in my pen. And I crave for the same thing in you. Give me that. Comfort. Love. Purpose.

Later as I'd kiss your chest, breathing softly near your heart, I'd listen to your heartbeats. I'd want to know - would it ever beat for me? Would it? I am asking you now.

Please say yes.

Yesterday you asked me to write a poem for you. I won't. You are one poem I will never write. Never. Ever. If I will pour you out on a piece of paper, I'd be empty. You are the only one who makes me whole. I want to keep you inside. I want to keep you mine. I want to keep you exclusive. That's all.

The lover in me takes over the poet. You are not a muse anymore. You are love. You are my Desi Tharra.