Tere Ishq Mein Ghayal Today

So let me bleed. Let me stumble. Let me fall at your feet until my bones turn to dust.

They ask me why I limp through the bazaars, clutching my side where no sword has cut. They ask why my laughter sounds like shattered glass, and my eyes carry the weight of a monsoon that never falls. tere ishq mein ghayal

In your ishq, the pain is not a poison. It is a pilgrimage. Every ache is a prayer bead. Every sleepless night is a temple. Every drop of sweat on my brow is a verse I cannot speak aloud. So let me bleed

Not by the careless turn of your wrist, or the sharp edge of your goodbye. No—I was wounded by the first sajda of your eyelash. You looked at me, and I bled poetry. They ask me why I limp through the

I have become the madman at your door, the faqir who collects thorns as if they were roses. The world calls it a sickness. I call it ghayali —the holy wound.