Half fiction / Half truth I can feel the daisies growing over me ��

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  • musings_ 3d

    Lingerache -
    The ache that hopelessly lingers.


    i) your memory crawls, seemingly seamlessly, on my skin, tonight. lingers in the hollow of the bones that can no longer hold the weight of regret, echoing inside.
    your memory arrives, unannounced, and quietly makes its way upto a cold corner of my flimsy heart.

    they say, even though we cannot remember everything consciously, we never lose any of our memories.

    I wonder how I still live somewhere in the back of your mind; like a dusty book you no longer read, an unfinished poem left abandoned in the middle, or a song that sits tired in your playlist, always there yet never chosen.

    ii) you come back to me in whispers of the callous winds on evenings when it gently roughens my wounds that never knew how to heal.

    I've named my scars after you.

    iii) I remember how I gathered parts of you, slowly on brumous days of winter when the sunlight fell, softly on our frail skins. there is no summary of you yet.

    how reluctantly you gave to me all that you had and
    I gave to you all that i could.
    after you, I am a mere remnant now. a part of the whole that was once us.

    iv) they taught me, when I was child of obscure sorrows that how I was, what I worship.
    so, I placed you on the pedestal of all my hopes and you housed my ancient faith.

    I named my love for you - devotion.

    v) on nights like these, when your smile lingers in my dreams and your voice rakes my being with regret, so effortlessly, I hold on to the essence of all the memories I made with you and the hollowness of the love we once shared.

    what are we if not just bits and pieces of people we've met and the memories we've kept?

    vi) in this reckless ache of familiarity, you come back to me one day. longing for what we had. your eyes filled with remorse, you caress my face with calloused hands of our past; and say how you haven't moved on even after all these years of dull agony, burdened by the life that ought to be lived.

    you come back and tell me how all your attempts to efface my face from your memories, to wash out your skin from my touch and to unhear all my drunken apologies were hopelessly futile.
    you tell me how you ache for me on nights that refuse to dawn.

    vii) I smile at you, and my helplessness slithers down my eyes.

    My breaths are the spaces of the poem I wrote to you -
    except it is an obituary.
    My throat is a parched graveyard of all things I
    wished I could have told you -
    except my mouth is a tombstone with your name etched onto it.

    I tell you how much I am in love with the memories we gave birth to, tender and soft -
    And how your words are a weight, heavier than these fragile bones of mine can handle.

    Because my love, if you're a god, then this is blasphemy.

    For I am in love with the memories I made with you,
    But not in love with the 'you'
    I made them with.

    Not anymore.

    - Musings

    #mirakee #writersnetwork #ceeswordinvent

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    Have you ever been in love with the memories but not with the person who birthed them?

  • musings_ 1w

    Vincent Van Gogh, out of placid serenity, once said,
    "What is done in love, is done well."

    So, I smile, in all my brokeness.

    I often wander in this cold lane of bygone memories and fragments of the whole that was once us. The orange sky, in all its loneliness, hangs above my tired head, like a burden meant to be passed on.
    We were born when a drowsy sin made love to blithe nonchalance; orphaned long before we could ever learn to wear this tender remorse like our own skins.

    Your laughter, like crackling ice, echoes in the hollow of my bones, tonight. I wear your innocent smile on my face and my fragile lips quiver with the unbearable weight of your name. You are the figment of my imagination that makes the callousness of the reality seem unreal.

    My wavering shoulders are broken, carrying your memories. Your eyes are waves of auburn and I've always been bad at keeping afloat.
    Your skin tastes like gold, shining in sunlight, and this winter has seeped deep within the realms of my soul.
    I melt into us, at your single touch, tonight.

    You're the sweet breeze and
    I am the fragrance of a newly born bud.
    I am scattered, scattered, scattered in you.

    I chant your name like a sacred prayer.
    Why does this barren mouth of mine taste like all the things I've ever lost?
    The sky has cracked open, and it looms over my hopeless existence like a red shroud, mourning the slow death of a love, perhaps,
    done well, once.

    Van Gogh's last words, in all his wretchedness, were, "The sadness will last forever."

    I smile.

    - Musings

    Picture Credit : TUMBLR

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    The Starry Night

    Of almost loves and last words

  • musings_ 1w


    the night sits too heavy on the frail shoulders of my dreams. my whims disintegrate into a myriad shards, and you come back to me in whispers of the tired wind, as it embraces me into endless memories.

    In these moments of quiet, when sleep lingers on these heavy eyelids of mine, I often visit the ruins of us in the hope to find pieces of us, in the wreckage.

    I am a mispronounced name for all the regret seeping in your veins when you undress out of your skin at night. you go to bed wearing the love that once was,
    the love we once lost.

    the broken shards of my desires pierce the pale skin of dawn as it birthes daylight and agony. my days are colored in the monochrome of your absence. they sit on the heaviness of my chest and move achingly slow around me.

    the silence hangs in the air like loss.

    the evenings, like fractured memories, loom over my existence, reciting an eulogy on the tenderness of my whims. the fabric of the universe is stiched in the hues of my longing for you.
    the yearning for what we used to be.
    the emptiness lays still with me till the darkness
    slowly crawls into the mundanity.

    the nights sits too heavy on the broken shoulders of my dreams; i whisper your name like an erasure poem from dusk to dawn. why does my mouth tastes of sawdust and remorse?

    I shed down this pale skin tonight.
    your laughter echoes in the hollow of my bones.
    you come back to me in these moments, in all unadulterated essence.

    Jonathan Safran writes how he regrets that,
    "It takes a life to learn how to live".

    I wonder how it's the same way about love.

    - Musings

    #mirakee #pod #ceesmustsee

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    of love and longing

    memories and longings.
    that's all what's left in the end.

  • musings_ 1w


    I am lonely.

    Dust particles swirling around in a storm. a painful battle scar on your pale arm. an eternal agony.
    a lump in your throat. an accumulated amount of regret in your eyes and a deposition of guilt, binding you to this transience; not letting you succumb to the bitter destiny you've chosen for yourself long ago.

    I am a crumpled leaf, lying abandoned, on the barrenness of the soil. Left over somewhere in my parchedness. trampled, walked over. not forgotten but never even remembered.

    I am but a mistaken word in articulate paragraphs of artistic beauty. and
    indelible stain left over by time. blackened and crossed over; easily replaceable.
    I still leave an ineluctable mark behind. an inauspicious omen.

    I am an empty heartbreaking cacaphony in the world that sways in cadence. a wound roughened by callous gusts of wind. your pulse against the bluntness of the blade. veins, overflowing with tainted crimson.

    I am agony.

    The ache in its entirety. A curse fallen into itself. Heart-wrenching verses of poetry. a blurred picture sitting in your gallery, a discarded memory. a forgotten past.
    I am an inevitable dusk in all its perpetuity while you've yearned for light all your life.
    I am all this and more but most of all, I am sorry.

    As for years, I've built these walls around my heart.
    This bitterness- the coating on the walls, my ignorance - the hinges upon gates,
    sturdy and ever so strong, covering this hollow cavity stocked inside these shattered bones-
    this ribcage of mine.

    And then there's you.

    The masterpiece of an artist. with hope filled in the corner of those childlike eyes.
    with your contagious smile pouring in my life like sunshine on a brumous day of winter that goes on and on.
    Your tenderness terrifies me to the very depths of my turbulence, your innocence incinerates my ignorance,
    your exuberance shakes me to the very interior of my soul. How do you do it?

    Don't look at me with those eyes. don't ask how I imagine my dream house to be. or what do I remember about my childhood. don't ask me about those dreams that I've long abandoned.
    don't bring me cotton-candy dreams.
    sunrises. hope. and love.

    Because if I touch you, you'd crumble and reduce to ashes. galaxies inscribed in your hands would cover themselves in an eternal darkness, the constellations in your eyes would shatter into myriad stars, breaking one after the other.

    You are a ballad of hope, I am an elegy of loss.

    So, let me be.
    Let me come off as someone insolent. Rude. Arrogant. What not.
    But please don't look at me with those eyes of yours, piercing right across me, my heart laid bear. Don't accept my soul in all its nakedness.

    Don't give this vulnerability a name.

    Let you be - you
    And I - me.

    You - a minstrel of hope. an embodiment of dreams.
    a rose, sweet in its fragrance; beautiful in its immortal glory.
    And me - a bard that sings of the destruction that wreck houses. an eulogy read at a funeral.

    I am but a crumpled leaf,
    let the wind take me away.

    - Musings.


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    of hope and agony

    You are a ballad of hope,
    I am an elegy of loss.

  • musings_ 2w

    i) they say there's only one person for whom you write. one person who makes you a poet.

    ii) you weave metaphors around their beauty. write about the similies breathing under the folds of their skin.

    iii) you touch them and every inch of their being becomes a poem. you look at them and build rhymes around their existence, immortalising them in your ink.

    iii) you write about the myriad colours of their soul, and drench yourself in hues of grey. you are just an empty white canvas now. and they paint you in their shades.

    iv) you discover the universe behind their eyes, and their smile is the most beautiful constellation that you have ever seen.

    v) your ink-stained fingers trace the words inscribed inside their bones, and the world collapses in the arch of their spine.

    vi) even when they rip apart your heart, it only beats in the rhythm of their name.

    vii) the tears falling down your eyes mirror a single face, theirs.

    they say there's only one person in your life for whom you write.
    for me, that was him.

    maybe that's why my conscience is wordless now.

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    You are my poetry.

  • musings_ 3w

    this loneliness tastes like my skin, now
    this agony feels like the bones that
    cradle me to sleep every night;
    i am a discolored autumn leaf shed
    unceremoniously by the branches of a tree,
    that stands tiredly against the
    bleached scars of the sky.
    i lie crumpled on to the ground,
    with these broken ribs,
    that can no longer
    support the mess that
    i have carved
    myself in.

    cloaked with nothing, but bare fear,
    that looks like resistance;
    i have
    dressed up this stature
    with puncture wounds.
    for these disgraceful bones
    cannot hold the frame
    of my body anymore.

    as this anxiety somersaults
    in the pit of this stomach,
    i tie my fear into knots,
    and make a long rope out of them,
    that my voice now uses to
    climb up and down with,
    from a parched throat,
    to a barren mouth.

    the desperation chokes
    up my windpipe;
    soot turning to dust
    everytime i pretend to breathe
    I reek of drunken
    for sins
    I am yet to commit.

    i gather all the shards,
    of your memories -
    piece by piece,
    from the folds of this
    pale face,
    and put them up in
    the bags underneath my eyes.
    no wonder
    the baggage
    of the past hurts,
    everytime i try to sleep.

    i try to let go
    of this breath that sits
    rather tired on my lungs.
    straining with passing time
    as my knotted fear
    seems to strangle me
    in the stillness of the night,
    you're holding the rope
    from one end,
    my love,
    as i hold it from another.

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    but have you ever been
    of being tired?

  • musings_ 8w

    the long tresses of the night,
    strangle of me : all hopes.
    bones rendered hollow,
    threaded regret; guilt fibre
    to the fabric of my being, tonight.

    i am etched
    in this b r o k e n n e s s
    coalesced in these measureless measures,
    evaporating into faceless faces.

    lungs tired of empty breaths,
    i am breathless, tonight.

    all essence - smeared tar,
    vision clouded with charcoal tonight.

    the calloused fingers of past
    caress the face of the hour;
    the mistress of time
    has placed her hand
    on all reminiscence -
    so gently,

    that in this absence of light,
    my heart extinguishes,
    hopes burn, tonight.

    this night -
    is an elegy recited on our love.
    rosary whispered,
    sinners turn believers, tonight.

    beholding you,
    I could never hold you, love.
    kohl arched in these eyes,
    bleak into your face, tonight.

    the dark tresses of the night,
    envelope me,

    choked with your memory,
    I am an infidel,
    seeking God, tonight.

    - inspired from Agha Shahid Ali

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    i am b r e a t h l e s s,

  • musings_ 8w

    I am just your part now. Meaningless without your being. Incomplete on my own. My days are shadowed by the moments we spent together and my nights are another painful reminder of the shallowness I feel.
    I see the world through your eyes.
    Blue being the colour I often wear now, and I hear the words lingering in the silence, just like you used to. I walk like you now, slow and cautious.

    My existence is shaded by your essence. I wear your fragrance on my skin, your breaths are laded on my lungs, I hide you behind the longing that I write about. I hide you in the corners of my eyes, so that no one can see you. I hide you on my lips, and I seldom smile, and you lie with me in moments of stillness when my soul is drenched with guilt.

    I have shed my skin and my bones ache carrying all the weight of the memories that made us.
    My voice shivers and I am too afraid of it now.
    So, I never speak.

    My mouth is just a cemetry of all the things I don't say.

    I remember every detail. I remember every thing about you. All your lopsided smiles, your way of walking, the sound of your laughter, your what-did-I-even-do's and your words. I remember to not forget. After all, these memories are all I am left with. I don't want to lose track of you until these callous waves of time sweep away everything I have and I drown in the water of my eyes.

    You're everything I had, everything I lost,
    How can I forget you?

    I am just you now, having long forgotten what I used to be like. The nostalgia of us engulfs me whole and I meet you in the stanzas of my poetry. I empty myself to fill up these blank pages. To write about the universe taking turns in your eyes, and the cosmic dust resting in the corners of your beautiful soul. I write about how you made me a poet because you were poetry.

    But this is not poetry.

    I am just missing you and I know you cannot come back. You don't have to.

    You left before I could give you reasons to stay.

    So, remember that I had you.
    Parts of you that were mine.
    Parts of you that'll stay mine.

    I used to be me. But I am just your half now.
    A mere remnant of the whole that was you.

    For you are in me,
    more than I'll ever be in myself.


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  • musings_ 8w

    Even the air spoke
    your name -
    softly, gently tearing
    my heart.
    Every breath I took,
    was just another reminder
    that your presence
    was more alive, than my
    own shadow, which hung
    like a dress on my body.
    I was more yours,
    than I was mine,
    how could you
    be forgotten?

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  • musings_ 10w

    I hold on to a crushed flower.
    It's slowly withering away, in these hands of mine. Breathing its final in these moments of quiet.

    4:06 pm

    The sky is a bruised blue.
    A fabric of scars,
    stiched together by a myriad sighs and
    some wishes scattered across, hopelessly.

    All of a sudden,
    I remember your love for blue.
    Your perfect denim. Streaks of blue in your
    dishevelled hair. Your favourite color to put on.
    Your favourite word: Melancholia.
    The flower you adorned your home with.
    The color the vast sky is dyed in.
    Hues and shades of the universe you breathed in.

    I smile. My empty heart too heavy to carry.
    I wonder how you were a shade
    of blue too, in my life.
    I could never tell you this, though.

    For when you gifted my sadness.
    My shivering hands held it as if it was
    the most sacred thing ever.
    I kept it safe;
    tucked in my heart.

    I never did mind my world being coloured
    in shades of agony,
    only if you held the brush.

    I smile,
    my heart shattered across
    the ground I stand on.


    I reach home, trembling under the weight of all these breaths, my lungs are tired of.
    I open my calloused hand.

    Crushed inside is a flower. Dying, it reeks of a frangrance, my senses are too familiar with.

    And it dawns upon me.

    Staring at me, in its shade of
    dark blue, is a beautiful hydrangea.

    I remember this flower;
    whose name
    I scribbled across my notebook, mindlessly.
    Only because you adored them, so much.

    I look down -
    dying in these empty hands.

    And I hold on to it.

    Just like I held on to you.

    Never able to see the tragedy,
    beyond what they call love.

    For they never tell you,
    hydrangea reeks of poison.

    #mirakee #LOVE

    Picture Credit: Pinterest

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    Dying in my hands,
    I hold onto it.