Tuesday, 20 September 2011
My hands shake all the time. When I take a single sip of water, when I tie my shoe lace or even when I type this sentence.
I feel blessed when she holds me tight and convinces me not to shake, when she laugh on my ridiculously lame jokes and tells me not to change for people.
I adore her desire to sleep on my lap. I adore how she expects me to go for window shopping and try out shocking pink shirts.
I always love the very first sight of her face, her smiling face. It takes a while to accept that she is physically around me. Our long walks to the football field are nothing less than a very cheesy Bollywood movie scene. The comfort of talking to her about anything (including the hot Islamiat teacher at LUMS) is priceless.
I like how I have some hope in my life. Hope to make more friends, hope to be a part of those red buildings, hope to do something big in life, hope to give her something in return.
I wish I could describe the perfection of her back or tell her how beautiful that little white birth mark on her arm is. I wish I could tell how special I felt when she constantly stared at me on our way back from fortress. I wish I could measure her level of awesomeness in words or feelings. I wish I could write something good for her.
I won't be wrong if I call her a blessing. I thank God for her, I seriously do.