hopeless romantic

art. books. literature. coffee. poems. love letters.

[arthoeacademia]

I had always risen and withdrawn whenever a cigarette was lit. Its smell had always repulsed me—until yesterday. I met him. For a fleeting heartbeat, my eyes met his before I collapsed into his embrace, the way a lost child clings to her mother at last. And all that he carried upon him was the scent of nicotine, mingled with the faded echoes of his lost love for me.

Nicotine had never been sweeter. In that instant, I tried to inhale every trace of him as though it were my most treasured fragrance, as though he were veiled in the divine smoke of incense. I longed to carve that scent into my very soul, to preserve it within me, yet it slipped away—just as his love for me once did. With that knowledge burning inside me, I pressed my face deeper into his chest, desperate to uncover even the smallest fragment of love magar,

“مائی شعلوں کی طرح بھڑکتے ہوئے بھی،

اسکی محبت کے ایک تنکے کے لئے ترس گئی۔

محبت ٹوہ نا ملی لہٰزا—

ان شعلوں پر نگاہوں کی شبنم برس گئ۔”

[arthoeacademia]

My heart tightens with unease at every ring my phone releases, each chime carrying the weight of anticipation—waiting for it to transform into his voice. “Hello,” he says. Just those five letters, and suddenly, everything I had rehearsed dissolves into nothingness. Words slip away, so I merely echo his greeting and force out a plain, “Happy Birthday.”

I hadn’t intended for it to unfold this way, but then again, it had always been hypothetical in my mind.“Thank you,” he replies. And I wait—foolishly—for him to add bubu at the end, like he once did. But silence follows instead. A silence so thick it presses against me until I realize I am still on the call. My tongue feels heavy, as though every sentence I prepared is trapped in my throat, strangled by the anguish my heart refuses to release.

Tears spill down my cheeks, and out of all the words I had so carefully planned, only muted sobs escape into that vast, unbearable quiet. He doesn’t end the call, but neither does he comfort me. “I miss you,” I finally manage, my voice fracturing into a thousand shards—yet somehow still fewer than the countless fragments of my heart scattered across the floor. He doesn’t respond. And though I feel his helplessness humming through the line, my pity does not turn inward. It rests, instead, on him.

I steady my voice, patching the cracks with the remnants of courage I can gather, and bring myself to end the tormenting stillness. “I love you. Take care of yourself,” I whisper, lingering for a few seconds, clinging to the faint hope that he will change his mind. “Take care,” he says at last. The words echo in my mind like a siren, pulling me back into the cruelty of reality.

And so, I cry myself to sleep once more. And the day after. And the day after. And the day after…

[arthoeacademia]

Heyy do you mind not using the wordgirl tag?

Your cool poetry is getting mixed in with posts for the Pbs kids show “Wordgirl”

Though I find it greatly amusing to get whiplash of deep powerful writing, it’s not the vibe I need when I’m looking for escapism through the fun children’s cartoon about a super-powered vocabulary prodigy

omg my sincere apologies. i did not realise it was a children’s cartoon. thank you so much for letting me know.

[arthoeacademia]

my blue and yellow

everything i wanted to be in the cup in my hand, i find it in the cup that sits on the table in front of me. staning the papers that were laid out beneath it. i look hopefully inside the cup in my hand. it is the most favourite utensil of mine. its handle is broken and it has cracks at the edge of its mouth. still i do not seem to care and hold it layering both of my hands clenched to that cup. even though it sometimes leaves stains on the collar of my shirt due to its uneven cracks. it sometimes also burns out my hand due to the hot coffee in it. it doesn’t have a handle, remember? that cup is still so dear to me. it is blue in colour. i look at the cup that sits on the table desperately wishing to be picked by me. it is yellow. i feel bad for that cup for it has all the things that my blue cup lacks. it is new with soft edges and a very fine handle. i eye the insides of my blue cup and it suddenly shatters in my hand leaving me bruised. blood slides down from my fingers and i can taste the feeling of abandonment. again. my blue abandoned me yet again. i cry and fill up yellow with my tears. it stays calm and collects everything without complaints. i don’t pick yellow up. i am scared of abandonments. i ask yellow how long will it stay? how long will it wait? “you know waiting is so beautiful if it ends with you” yellow has this carved besides its handle. and i tear up again. i look forward to the day i can pick up yellow without any hesitation. when i can fill it up with my favourite desserts. i really hope blue is at peace though. i miss blue. it is still my favourite cup.

[arthoeacademia]

I PICKED MY YELLOW UP!!!!!!!!

[arthoeacademia]

have you ever been loved?

a question grabs my attention-

“have you ever been loved?” a friend of mine asks.

you cross my mind immediately;

and i reply with a smile “yes, in a way that forever lasts.”

i go on about you without having being invited to say,

how you mention me to The God every time you pray;

also about my rubber band that sits on your wrist which you never forget to wear,

and every word that makes me cry you make sure it gets quickly repaired.

i talk about how you never leave my hand while we walk;

that you listen to me patiently while i uncontrollably talk.

the way you look at me sometimes without uttering a word;

but i read your eyes as they always stand out of the entire herd.

i talk about all the ways you have loved me;

with pride filled in my words as i speak.

from the very start of the journey to today,

you have never made me feel that im weak.

you carry all the bags and open all the doors.

you pull out the chair for me to sit and handle all the chores.

i talk about you making my life easier than before;

i tell them that i am still being loved, but i love you even more.

[arthoeacademia]

long to belong.

i long to go home. i long to belong. everytime i find myself stranded, the vicinity is always deserted. i expect a familiar hand entwined between the gaps in my fingers, filling it up, calling me home. but instead i stand there alone. waiting for a home. a home that gets a sting when it feel my absence. a home that feels empty if i do not dwell. i long for a home that longs my belonging.

my tears search for a home aswell. my eyes can never keep them intact. they always find a way to ooze my tears out, drowning me in pure loneliness. i see the tears hit the floor, getting absorbed by that deserted surface, vanishing into nothingness like they never existed. this makes me curl up in the fear of being homeless forever. in the fear of not leaving my essence anywhere. in the fear of never ever being reminisced about. in the fear of never being longed for my presence by a home. by my home. in the fear of getting vanished into nothingness like i never existed.

[arthoeacademia]

graveheart

i see my feelings get invalidated in front of my eyes and i stare that nuisance back in silence. i write and write and write about the feelings my heart carry. the condolences and comfort that it wishes to receive never knocks at the door. i wait till i can escort those feelings out, welcoming his comfort and affirmation. i wait and wait peeking through my windowsill, glancing and searching for his sight but everything goes in vain. with every passing second the feelings grow branches and give birth to overthinking. my heart is almost exploded. “i wait for his arrival as patiently as a freshly dug grave waits to embrace yet another soul. i wait for his comfort very similarly, for my heart is turning into a grave of feelings. in hopes that his touch of acknowledgment will grow flowers in front of my epitaph, i wait and wait.” i hope he will realise the damage of his absence. i hope he will be available to nurture the feelings that he has birthed. i hope he sees me in the eye and makes that unbreakable vow of validating my feelings. of making me feel wanted, appreciated, understood and prioritised. he is my priority, will i ever be his?

[arthoeacademia]

tattoos on my skin

Everyone i have ever loved has tattooed the ink of their reminisce in my skin. some of them have healed and aged beautifully. adoring them, a huge smile on my face. always cherishing the moments how they used to be. lucky that i ever got to live them. like that friend group i had during my school days. or those overnight trips. ugly tattoos are the ones that are still hurting and unhealed. they still feel like someone’s poking the needle into my skin leading to bruises and cuts. and i bleed onto my present. i am scared of further tattoos but i still get them everytime i love someone. a friend, a student or my one and only.

i am scared of the needles and my skin usually refuses to accept more ink sinking into it permanently, marking their reminisce forever. and still i allow my lovely person to let his ink of reminisce hug my skin and it happens as gentle as he is. what i am scared of is the aftermath. the healing process. i am scared that one more tattoo will remain unhealed as time passes causing more needles to poke. so i stop him within intervals. asking for reassurances. i am scared of my unhealed tattoos. and i cannot stop carrying a part of my muses with me so please be gentle forever. for my skin has suffered with lots of beautiful tattoos that have turned into poking needles oozing out ink that spreads onto my present. i come to you to heal my wounds. do not give me more reasons to betroth “love”. because you would possibly be the last person that i love with such hopelessness. deeper than the needles can possibly reach underneath my skin and ruining my insides. i love you but i am scared. i just need some words that i can trust so that i can turn blind again, giving you my all. trusting you with everything i have to offer. letting you tattoo on every corner of my skin without having any intervals to stop. i am yours truly. can you please make me believe that you will be mine forever? with no alterations?

[arthoeacademia]

my belongings

i use verbal words everytime before i pick my pen up. somehow ink and paper have always understood me more than very lively human beings. somehow when i cry, my pillow has hugged me back tighter than anyone i know. somehow, the sleeves of my sweatshirt has wiped more tears than someone’s hands. i do not fear my belongings as they never ask me “why?”.

“why do you cry so much?”

“why do you feel things so deeply?”

“why are you stretching things unnecessarily?”

“why do you think so much?”

“why are you so weak?”

these questions being one of the many reasons that i pick my pen up. the ink bleeds onto the paper as it is mixed with my tear drops. the words turn blurry and i cannot write between the lines anymore but i still do not stop. no matter how crooked my handwriting gets, that paper wouldn’t abandon me. wouldn’t judge me for being such a mess. it knows my past and my deepest secrets. it knows the love and the trauma that i carry within. it knows that i plant roots so deeply in the people i love, that i always lose a piece of myself when they leave.

[arthoeacademia]

future

future. hearing this word, my subconscious visualises two sets of scenarios - both opposite. the first set has questions raised. “will i make it?” “how would my life with a family look like?” “will i be a good mom?” “will i ever succeed in my career path that i have chosen for myself?” “what if i don’t succeed?” “will i be happy?”. all the questions have their answers in the second set of scenario. it gives me a sense of reassurance. however my future would be like, i will always answer the last question as “yes”. the answer side of the coin says that i will make it. through thicks and thins, being there for myself when i needed me the most. standing up every time i stumble over the hurdles in life. making lemonade out of every single lime that life offers me. i will make it. and family. my husband will be the most romantic person who gives direct competition to the men i read about in the books. supporting my life choices without a second thought. giving me beautiful children and a tiny home where our dreams dwell. my life with my own family will be dramatic. being a mom alone would be dramatic. i wish to be a mother of two. naughty yet well mannered kids that run everywhere around the frontyard of our home. the giggles in our home will always echo. constant movie nights, silly games, making pretty hairstyles for my daughter, dressing them up chic, giving our 100% to their fancy dress competitions, and giving them a little artsy mommy traits with papa’s trait of a passion to drive. all this sums up to being a pretty good mom i guess? with handeling house chores, me working as a tech employee will balance out my personality for sure. the way i work so hard to score good grades, attend my lectures, maintain notes and prepare myself for extra courses, i believe all this work will pay me off. with the pillars supporting me and my hard work, i will achieve somewhat i dream of. but if life unbalances and god forbid some tragedy happens failing me to my career path, there’s always an option to start a business. running a little cafe down the street with a flower shop and bookstore wouldn’t hurt much;) no matter where life turns, i am pretty sure i’ll somehow make it. and i’ll end up being happy because the people in my life right now are one of my strong reasons to keep going and not give up. i love them and i definitely love the future-me.

[arthoeacademia]

to every girl that stood by my side. this is for you!

we might’ve met in school, in college, in a tuition class, through someone or just somewhere. i want to thank you. thank you for letting me ugly cry in your arms. thankyou for stroking all of my worries out of my head with your fingers parsing my scalp. thankyou for stuffing sense into me. thankyou for making me realise how worthy i am. thankyou for letting me know that my hair is out of its place and thankyou for fixing it for me. my girls, i love you. i might not say it often but y’all hold a very dear place in my heart. thankyou for actually being one call or text away, always. i am so grateful for all of the saheliyan i have. i can really count on y’all. you make this world a better place to dwell in. we live for picking flowers and putting it in each other’s hair. i have shared some breathtaking moments where i felt like these girls are my roman empire! like sending random funniest voicenotes. laughing till we get a heartstroke and then forgetting the reason we’re laughing which just makes us laugh even harder. video chat cooking shows. making silly reels. making art together. sharing poetries that we write. always planning but never executing. meeting after months but always feeling at home when we meet. having maggi together. “i will cry if you dont stop crying” and then actually crying with me. every moment, every gesture deserves to be captured in a book. i adore y’all. some of my girls have grown apart, they hold a special place in my heart as well. girl friendships, to me, are ethereal. i will die being a girl’s girl💗

[arthoeacademia]

my blue and yellow

everything i wanted to be in the cup in my hand, i find it in the cup that sits on the table in front of me. staning the papers that were laid out beneath it. i look hopefully inside the cup in my hand. it is the most favourite utensil of mine. its handle is broken and it has cracks at the edge of its mouth. still i do not seem to care and hold it layering both of my hands clenched to that cup. even though it sometimes leaves stains on the collar of my shirt due to its uneven cracks. it sometimes also burns out my hand due to the hot coffee in it. it doesn’t have a handle, remember? that cup is still so dear to me. it is blue in colour. i look at the cup that sits on the table desperately wishing to be picked by me. it is yellow. i feel bad for that cup for it has all the things that my blue cup lacks. it is new with soft edges and a very fine handle. i eye the insides of my blue cup and it suddenly shatters in my hand leaving me bruised. blood slides down from my fingers and i can taste the feeling of abandonment. again. my blue abandoned me yet again. i cry and fill up yellow with my tears. it stays calm and collects everything without complaints. i don’t pick yellow up. i am scared of abandonments. i ask yellow how long will it stay? how long will it wait? “you know waiting is so beautiful if it ends with you” yellow has this carved besides its handle. and i tear up again. i look forward to the day i can pick up yellow without any hesitation. when i can fill it up with my favourite desserts. i really hope blue is at peace though. i miss blue. it is still my favourite cup.

[arthoeacademia]

I am an addict

my chest hurts and my mind is overflowing of all the things i want to say to you. my skin stretches and gets ripped showcasing the flames that are lit underneath. i am an addict. an addict for him. his smell i want to sniff in like cocaine crushed with credit cards. i wanna smoke into his mouth, inhale his fragrance and breathe out my love. a joint. rolled in with the love letters i wrote for him. i hold it between my fingers and see the letter burn and turn into a black ash. it doesn’t fade away even in a storm for it carries the weight of my words, kiss marks and the smell of coffee. i am an addict and i crave an injection of his touch flowing into my veins. the ripped insides under my skin appear to be a drought of desperation. a drop of his love or even a glimpse of him would quench my thirst for love for i am an addict and he is my addiction.

[arthoeacademia]

my homemaker

He is my regular dose of serotonin. love grows whenever and wherever we share even the tiny bits of moments filled with smiles and understanding. he makes my heart bloom. and picks all the thorns out of that plant of longing in my heart and kisses the leaves and stems. flowers grow everywhere his lips touch. the plant of longing dies and rebreeds into something more breathtakingly beautiful. i pluck the flowers from the plant and check if he loves me or does he love me not. every last petal in those flowers scream that he loves me as deep as the red colour of that flower, or as deep as the roots of this new plant reach. he loves me. with actions. with words. and smiles and smirks. with petals and with leaves. he loves me with everything he has to offer to me. i take care of this gardener of my heart in a little bud on top of my plant. he lives there. rent-free. i love how he transforms that place from a swamp to a garden filled with deep red roses and lilies of the brightest colours. i love how butterflies fly from my heart all the way to my stomach. i love love and love the minutest details of this man in my heart. he gardens so thoughtfully and hangs up frames filled with memories full of laughs and smiles and compliments. he has made my heart a home. where he dwells and maintains my heart like an art gallery on the show.

[arthoeacademia]

a plant in my heart

solitude is becoming my best friend. we share tears very often. she plants longing in my heart and i accept it with a smile. tears. we hang out very often. solitude and i. she comes with a pot to water the plant in my heart. its been weeks now and i can feel it grow. i ask her what is this plant longing for? “Love”, she says. “The kind of love that holds up your hair while you’re throwing up. The one that acknowledges your feelings. The kind of love that makes this plant die.” i get sad at the plant dying part but the rest i contemplate and end up agreeing. solitude knows how to make me believe things that do not exist. i do yearn for love. i tear a page writing my name and then draw a silly little heart besides it every time. i yearn for love in ways which are simple. like searching for that note which you never secretly slipped in the pocket of my worn-out jeans. you never pluck flowers for me so i shamelessly ask you for it. i enjoy the love which i actually asked for. its a remorseful feeling. like asking for presents on your birthday upfront. but you do pluck that flower for me and tuck it behind my ear. its yellow. i still have that flower in between the pages of my romance novel. solitude is still accompanying me. she listens to everything that i have to say and then gives me more things to believe as a response. things which again do not exist. she serves my delusion with a silver spoon. she is my best friend after all.

“will he ever pluck flowers for me without me asking?” i ask her. for once i think she’s giving me an advice instead of responding with confetti filled promises.“stop asking for it and see it yourself”, she eyes me with a smile. i dont smile back. she knows i yearn for love. she knows that the seeds she panted in my heart still blooms and the longing grows. i leave my solitude alone. i walk away and i continue to ask and ask and ask for love. sometimes i get lucky enough to get the love without asking which is so beautiful. i wanna let solitude know that i want to stop asking for love. i want to let it come to me flowing in the air. i want love to hug me without me making efforts. as easy as breathing. but if i stop, will i ever get enough love at all?

[arthoeacademia]

he doesn’t feel like home anymore. i never had to knock asking him to let me in. i didn’t feel like im eating up space. i felt comfortable. i felt secure and safe. now it has started to feel different. as if im being pushed out? i don’t know. he usually asks me to sit in an unused corner nowadays. i am not allowed in the balcony or on his study table anymore. i am scared to disturb his peace. i used to be his peace. things are changing and i dont know where to go. my dwelling avoids me. hugging him used to give me a sense of security. when he ran his fingers through my hair while i slept on his lap. i remember it very well that he couldn’t bend over to kiss my forehead and we used to laugh about it together.

where do i rest my head when shit gets hard? his shoulder doesn’t feel inviting anymore. my tears wait to be wiped away in the way, they roll off slowly on purpose so that his fingertips can get enough time to reach my cheek. the little tear droplets end up reaching my neck or as a temporary stain on my pillow cover. his finger tips dont feel relaxing anymore. i miss when they used to dance their way in my hair to caress my thoughts. when they rubbed my back to vanish all my worries away. when they swiped onto my cheek wiping away my tears without me waiting for it. he used to plant a gentle kiss on my eyebrows just after that. when his fingertips actually felt relaxing. like the favourite corner of my home, i miss it. i miss everything within your embrace that was home to me. you’ve stopped feeling like home anymore.

[arthoeacademia]

girl dinner? yea i binge-eat my thoughts😍