Rangat teri zulfo ki ghatao ne churai
Khusboo tere anchal se hawao ne udai
Paimane ka dil na tut jaye to kahu main
Hai cheez gazab ki jo nigaho ne pilai
Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists. When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence.
