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  • musings_ 6w


    In the daylight of translation, all Shahid longs from love is its beginning; the bittersweet taste of liberation in the embrace of annihilation, with the pigeons flying away in the sky, the skyline melting away into dusk, the pomegranates on the brink of explosion (seeds scattering like a handful of memories) and the night illuminating with darkness.

    this grief is a pain only pain effaces.

    on the brink of the disintegrating hour, your existence is an eulogy recited from dusk to dawn. this loss, like an apricot in the evening sun, ripens in the arms of a dull warmth every year, every summer. this ache - hues of crimson greeting the edge of a pulsated vein; the shroud of nostalgia smeared in longing, the lucidity of an obscure memory that blossoms in the tenderness of the night; one's inability to salvage a fading moment, another's venality to reinforce the non-existent.

    the essence of a forsaken form, of meaning cloaked in the realm of time, like holding a wrinkled hand, with fingers hanging like stubs of cigarettes, is feeble in all familarity. in the country of hopelessness, eons melt into transience, like salt dissolves into water and futile are all attempts to undo you from this deluge of blood that pains me (alive and brimming like a brook in my veins), both the stain and the colour, the indelibility and the ichor.

    (how do you mourn someone who's still alive?)

    quiescent in a morass of yearning;
    you, a late winter's moon; bereft of radiance in an envelope of mist, hung on the dormancy of a broken night. you, a wistful reverie, a fractured hourglass, an expanse of barreness, a dandelion caressed by the reckless wind, a remnant carved out of the banality of time, a restlessness that taints the essence of my being, a rusty, tangible ache that sits still for ages, a singed fabric (coarse in its velvet), a rusted clock, pieces of charred wood, a pulse against jagged tar, the cadence of the last song, ringing in the air.

    (you, the unforgiving hour of midnight,
    the yearning smothered in grief,
    the affliction called hope,
    you, the pain only pain effaces.)

    In his sparkling brilliance, Shahid longs for the beginning of love (before the pigeons fly over the last sky, the sky falls under the weight of the dropping stars, pomegranates crumple to dust), because at the end we're just left to wonder:

    (how do you mourn someone who's still alive?)

    - Kainat // of afflictions and ecstasies

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    of afflictions and ecstasies

    "Grief does not change you.
    It reveals you."
    - John Green

  • musings_ 24w


    the sky hangs above us like a cracked ceiling; an unravelling tapestry of grey warping along the edges. Birthing in the embrace of quietitude somewhere, raindrops trace the spine of a river and it swells under the weight of gentle fingers, caressing the rough contours of its being. the cold cheek of the moon against a rusted window, and the shivering skin of the ocean reminds me of how love is just another metaphor for loss.

    in the warmth of this molten longing; your breath falls unflinching on my cold skin, this weightlessness too heavy to carry. your hands cradle my whims to slumber. tenderness unveilied in the arch of a palm and it dawns upon me that how even when every touch hollows me out, bit by bit, I want to fill every crack of my being with this emptiness. the words escape your mouth half-fractured - jagged pieces of tin. this is our becoming, our unbecoming.

    I shatter hopelessly in the arms of the moment, and crawl upto you in this wretchedness nurturing us in its shadow. a broken smithereen of porcelain in an endless sea of yearning, how no one handled you with care. your name tastes like tar against my tongue and this love is a language I will never learn.

    the sky murmurs softly to the crevices of the earth - the anatomy of a conversation falling out of the realm of words. this longing too pronounced in the moisture of my eyes; cascading down into sheer affection. your fingers breathe life into my otherwise barren body.

    What do we stay for if not the familiarity of grief? the bare bones of a memory we have spend our lives cradling, an agony we lull to stupor each night, a loss that ripens in the warmth of our arms, every season?

    what is this pain if not a dull symphony playing out in an empty background, receding yet never fading away completely?

    Outside, raindrops caress the face of a river; a cold sliver of silver against the December sky and a shivering desire. despite the storms the moon wages under her skin, the ocean never stops holding on, does she?

    - Kainat // of shivers and slivers //

    #lovexloss #pod #love

    @thewiltedflower @meru_mukh @despair @poetica_a
    @alto_spade @thestoryweed @cafenoir

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    of shivers and slivers

    leave me out with the waste
    this is not what I do,
    it's the wrong kind of place,
    to be thinking of you.
    - 9 Crimes // Damien Rice

  • musings_ 29w


    improbability lulls these disintegrating whims to stupor gently in her arms; two raindrops racing to their deaths on the edge of my cracked windowpane. the rain makes love to the barren earth outside and you float across to me in this fragility - morphed, broken sighs of the wind.

    These moments fall recklessly out of the lap of time. when the darkness flows into the mouth of the twilight, my hands trace the contours of broken voices, shattered along rusty edges, buried beneath layers of dust, somewhere in the back of our throats. the realms of our hollow bones. we're nothing but a lingering resonance, dying amidst fractured whispers. too lost to be found again.

    I believe that this existence stems from an innate emptiness, a hollowness that leaves me anything but hollow, a seething nothingness that fills me up to the brim

    (yet leaves me aching for more)

    it blooms from a wilting possibility, deprived
    of salt and water -

    (dying away to give birth to a lifetime of disquiet)

    this restlessness falls effortless on my skin of disdain, fills each nook and cranny of my parched soul yet renders me insatiable. why is this desire so enormous?

    improbability lulls these disintegrating whims to stupor in this night flatlining itself against the ragged corners of stillness, shattering like a jagged line across the screen - lifeless.

    (a shallow beginning wading in with the callousness of departure)

    in this helplessness that we've come to call life, what is left of us now?
    what is left of us if not this silence, bitter and sour against my parched tongue, the metallic aftertaste of a hope that rendered us lifeless-

    the mist dances barefeet in the cold of this December night.

    we're two raindrops racing to their deaths on the edge of a cracked windowpane.

    - Kainat // of raindrops and broken windowpanes

    #lovexloss #pod #love #poetry

    @despair for you.

    @writersnetwork thank you for the repost.

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    of raindrops and broken windowpanes


  • musings_ 29w


    you rush in the room, humming a Steve Wilson song,
    strutting like you own this place.
    A goofy smile etched across your lips, words escape your mouth like a ragged prayer and even though I speak blasphemy fluently enough, there are Gods I've come to see in you.

    Last night, you couldn't read Keats for me and now you roam around from pop to countryside so goddamn effortlessly. I see the sunlight bathing your hair, I try to gather the leftovers of my rationality, and cloaked in sheer desperation, carve myself into the semblance of something more concrete, something sturdy and unbreakable.

    But as you sit here by my side, reading aloud this chapter on European crusades, there are wars that your eyes wage inside me and I can't help but wonder how you're clothed in fragility from the edge of your hands till the tips of your toes and I've been rather bad at handling porcelain forever.

    On a Thursday night, we decide to watch a movie and your voice is a soothing melody from Hozier. And as I watch you cradling nonchalance in your arms with such sparkling tenderness, I really wish my foolish heart wouldn't ruin this on us. For there are dynasties falling to ruins, empires crumbling to dust when you say my name ever so gently, like a wish you send out in the universe with a hope that maybe, one day we will come true.

    Two years later, you swirl in the room mindlessly,
    and I swear on Elvis Presley:

    I couldn't help falling in love with you.

    - Kainat // the mystery of love

    #lovexloss #pod #love

    A rather cheesy clichè. Giving it a breather from the drafts! Can't help it.

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    the mystery of love

    Now I'm prone to misery,
    the birthmark on your
    shoulder reminds me.

    - Sufjan Stevens


  • musings_ 32w


    would we ever return to the ruins?
    laiding bare the anatomy of the night;
    disengaging the silence, unravelling sepia
    threads from the fabric of the darkness
    (unfolding in the arms of longing cloaked in loneliness.)

    the silence (gushing like a deluge of crimson in my veins) flows in the mouth of the twilight, an innate metallic sourness to the stillness of the moment. the hollowed bones of a nameless memory rendered naked tonight.

    the moment traces the contours of an old memory, frail fingers breathing life into a pain - long remembered, long forgotten,
    recasting ache into tenderness. the sky breaks into a myriad smidgens of light
    (lulling a pale moon to slumber amidst the coldness of the hour)

    are we more forgiving of grief than of grief birthed from love? in the land of scattered dreams, there is never a warm morning.

    would we ever return to the wreckage?
    a shipwreck of fractured desire blooming into the falsity of hope, the certitude of hopelessness. each sentence fragmented; broken whispers amid empty cacophonies like the rain pouring in desperation, murmuring to touch the window glass with its bare hands, the sighing fireflies burning against the radiance of the light - all measured in measureless measures.

    the night flickers and tapers to a mere moment, slipping away from the frayed edges of time. like this darkness, we will never see the end of the dawn

    (molten sunlight cascading down the broken sky.)

    I caress the face of the departing hour; the callous againt calloused. The night gently touches my skin of disdain before carving me into an urn - just a broken one. frail, jagged near the bottom. Hollowed out of all essence.

    Unfolding in the arms of longing,
    Gushing like a deluge of crimson in my veins,
    Lulling the moon to slumber
    against the coldness of the hour,
    when the last ray of sun dies in decadence,
    falling down the broken sky,
    this hopelessness clings to my very bones -

    this silence fills every crack,
    crevice and pour of my existence,
    yet leaves me aching for more.

    I am a cracked vessel tonight,
    overflowing with emptiness.

    - Kainat // the anatomy of silence

    #lovexloss #pod #mirakee

    @meru_mukh @thewiltedflower @greypages_ @laxitha @meghana27 @jeelpatel @kir_tiii A read, please? #love #poetry

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    the anatomy of silence

    And now the day bleeds into nightfall,
    And you're not here to get me through it all.
    - Lewis Capaldi // someone you loved

  • musings_ 34w


    Cradled in the arms of loneliness, my dreams flower into guilt, tenderly. fragile moments fall recklessly out of the grasp of time as the dusk slowly melts away into the night.

    the unrustling leaves, cloaked in deep slumber lay in the lap of the tree, (untainted by the rebel face of the wind) resembling my palms tonight. for I do not know yet what to do with these calloused memoirs now that you're gone. everything I touch ends up being a fragment of us. everywhere I go, I end up finding you.

    (you always end up in my shaking hands.)

    Outside my window, a candle burns until it purloins its own essence; deserting its wick in the debris of wax and hopelessness. this moment slips slowly through my fingers, breaks and shatters, like cracked porcelain. in this hour, I break into us. I rise. I become.

    (My existence merely a carved remnant of your memory.)

    there's this innate namelessness to this ache that settles like dust on the pavement of my lungs. in the cracks of my enamel. the crevices of my bones. you left no stain in the crimson tainting my veins, no mark of indeliblity that traces your touch here. yet how how helplessly I shape my own inability to undo you from this blood, alive and brimming like a brook, cutting through the fabric of the night. rushing like a river against the edge of the pulse rooted within.

    I am no orphan - with this pain caressing my forehead, ever so gently and lulling this body to stupor each night. I am not an orphan yet. I am a child of obscure sin, conceived out of its love for salvation, salvaged as a souvenir from the shapeless guilt that accompanies its accomplice, pleasure.

    In the realms of my memories,
    your face is a mosaic of one thousand shards, an assortment of loss and hope. Those eyes smeared with hues of despair, a reflection of all the years you and me spent as us, in a blinding clarity. the space between your fingers and mine is a measureless distance I've come to call impossibility.

    yet you drift in the ragged territory of this fragmented hopelessness like a monsoon wave of mid-July, with an incessant urge to stay afloat in the water of eyes. your name sits encrusted on the fragility of my quivering lips, rising on me like an oppressing heat wave of October and then I flow in this trance. this love - merely longing too pronounced now.

    I want to write sonnets on the canvas of your back, etch verses to the salt of your tears. I want to hold you in these sighs, but then this breath breaks into a thousand questions in the contours of my mouth, and you aren't fond of punctuation yet

    (Except the full-stops).

    I sigh and hear the leaves shivering outside, adorned in sheer coldness. your memory tapers to this transience, and drowns in the flicker of the candle, melting in an incessant ache.

    And then I fall.

    And break. And shatter.
    Like cracked porcelain.

    I am both -
    a wavering candle,
    and a reckless moth set on fire, tonight.
    dancing around the inevitability of death.

    - Kainat // of flickering candles and rustling leaves

    #lovexloss #pod

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    Of flickering candles and rustling leaves

    You keep ending up in my shaking hands.
    - Justin Vernon // a song to a lover

  • musings_ 44w


    there's an untainted sense of serenity in the way;
    the dew drops caress the face of the flower,
    the rain penetrates the fertile womb of the earth,
    and the fragrance scatters itself across the thin layers of the air.

    there's an unadulterated vibe of sheer placidity
    in the way;
    the leaves rustle excitedly against the tiny
    branches of the trees,
    the sun sets gently to kiss the forehead of the horizon,
    and the birds hum mellifluous symphonies in an era of empty cacophonies.

    there's an inherent tranquillity in the stillness
    with which;
    loneliness craves to touch the edges of peace with her bare hands,
    a lifetime of intense longing birthes solitude,
    and desire condenses to give way to yearning.

    there's an unruffled feeling of quietitude that
    breathes when;
    their fingers entertwine,
    like the threads of a pale sweater,
    their words fit in together,
    like puzzle pieces frayed at edges
    under the weight of a lifetime,
    their smiles meet each other in the
    unfathomable depth of auburn.

    there's a incessant ache in the way;
    she swirls with an inexplicable grace,
    a pained ballerina dancing out of passion,
    he sighs --- ragged breaths holding
    their broken backs together,
    they meet at the crossroads with a promise
    to forget each other as the dawn
    comes greeting, swirling and sighing.

    there's an intricate face of loss,
    when the morning cradles their separation in her arms,
    with a nascent bud unfolding his petals, ever so slowly,
    with the water yet to drown his lungs,
    the air yet to rob it of his innocence.
    the sun yet to turn its back on him.
    the grass yet to tear across his skin like
    an uneven shoulder blade.

    there's an untainted, unadulterated placidity, a tranquil stillness, unruffled feeling of quietitude,
    an incessant ache, a warm enigma unfolding,
    an intricate face of loss called love.

    - Kainat // of the intricacies of love and loss

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    Of the intricacies of love and loss


  • musings_ 44w


    you met me at the crossroad, with my feet dragging me to the graveyard (where I stood to bury my past) and yours walking you towards the pyre of burnt memories and a longing crushed to ashes.

    you smiled straight at me, with an agony that wrecked my being with disquiet as I made my way across the uncharted territory of fragmented hope and a desire left abandoned.

    on the fifth day of summer, you told me how love was a word you couldn't enunciate anymore. With guilt flowing crimson in your veins, you couldn't unravel him from the fabric of your universe. How everything was drenched in his essence, hollowed out to make room for his memories.

    After all you pronounced his name as salvation. His arms, an escape from the ragged edges of reality. His voice, a souvenir saved from the callousness of time. Time that purloined everything you kept close to your heart. His memories, an unspent ray of light to pull out in times of endless darkness.

    The air in the cafè smelt of longing and the breaths sat on my tired lungs like charred ash. I told you with all these years of disdain falling effortlessly down my spine; life hung around me in the air, like an appointment I had forgotten about.

    With the remnant of your heart resting on your palm, when I tried to reduce the space between us into ten digits stretching from 0 to 9, you laughed. It seemed that you were rather terrible at numbers.

    today, your memory floats over me, an unfurling wave of dull agony, and I wonder if you think of me in moments that sit on our frail existences like burdens meant to passed on.

    On the fragility of your fingers, can you measure the distance between us now? Or the pulsating rush at which crimson gushes out of these wounds you've inflicted on the half of my heart that's left? Can you count the number of times I sigh in a stretch of 60 minutes? And can you still lay us down, scattered apart, to make out how much of us is yours, and what is left of me?

    for on the twenty-seventh day of winter, you left unannounced in the middle of the night. With a piercing ache tied to my feet, and an expanse of ruins that appears endless.

    for it seems that you exhumed me
    only to bury my soul even deeper.

    for this emptiness is so full of itself that
    it can just be filled with more emptiness.

    for words taste like sawdust and remorse in
    my mouth now.

    for I sit dissolved in stagnation for aeons now.

    with my eyelashes gazing into the mundanity like question marks. tell me, where did we go wrong?
    why wasn't love ever enough?

    my name is a call you don't answer anymore. we are fading away into nothingness with each sunset that
    caresses the horizon. this ache is a labour of such fragility - it withers at my touch.

    For love, you were rather terrible at numbers and they should've told you - two halves can only make one whole.

    - Kainat // of shattered halves and infinite numbers


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    of shattered halves and infinite numbers


  • musings_ 45w


    Blaise Pascal, in the unfathomable depths of emotions, once said, "When one does not love too much,
    one does not love enough".

    The sky is inconsolable today. Heart-torn, it reeks of the scent of burnt incense sticks, mourning the loss of a love that probably never was.

    Where do lovers go when love leaves?
    Into denial. The bittersweet aftermath of a lifetime of longing. The perpetual darkness after a brief scintilla of light.

    This life is an eternal orchestra of loss; I am born out of a ragged symphony --- a humming tune and the hollow essence of faded words. You're the song in my playlist, that lulls me to sleep, subdued in a destiny of agony, waiting hopelessly for a day when I am able to reach out and choose you. Able to spend my days listening to you, dwelling in your essence on evenings that turn into nights. Till then, you sit tired and stare at me with eyes filled with an ache that hasn't learnt a language yet.

    For you're still to know how some people, unknowingly, are a panacea to the pain they themselves breed, and melodies heard for too long lose meaning and instead become maladies that hold on to you, unreasonably still.

    Where does love go when the lovers leave?
    It adorns a beautiful pyre for itself, and then recasts into ashes slowly, leaving behind nothing but a residue of regret and fumes of familiarity that soon vanish into nothingness. In the cremation of love, silence and guilt stand helplessly as witnesses, exchanging glances every now and then, lamenting the way love set itself on fire.

    Pascal also explained how the heart has reasons that reasons don't know. I realize how I would hold onto that for as long as I can, to justify: this carnage unfolding around me, this wreckage that has ravaged our lives. To bury into depth, the fact that I was the spark that turned us into fumes, and the water that swallowed our lungs whole.

    As I wonder how sighs are but memories trapped into breaths, in the background ---- a faint tune plays, barely reaching my ears and then fades away into the empty cacophony. And a smile touches my barren lips.

    For the sky is inconsolable today and so am I-
    but they say ---- just because a song has ended
    doesn't mean that we stop singing it.

    - Kainat // of heartbroken skies and sweet symphonies

    Happy Birthday, Mirakee. :')

    I'm sorry for the infrequent updates.
    This one is not my best but probably my most honest.
    Thank you for bearing with me. <3

    #mirakee #pod #writersnetwork #ceesreposts

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    Of heartbroken skies and sweet symphonies

    Where does love go when lovers leave?

  • musings_ 46w


    there's this thing about people like me.

    we've been taught to carry this framework; called our bodies around the town quietly, hanging like a loose sweater. we wear this pale skin on our bones all day long and as dusk greets us with darkness, we slowly undress out of this facade.

    we've been taught to grip strongly onto time.
    so, our ribcages are shattered hourglasses,
    minutes spilling like coarse grains on the ocean bed, evaporating into nothingness.
    the seconds melting on our palms,
    travelling from one line to another, dissolving ever so slightly.

    we stand in the centre of catastrophes unfolding, like the petals of a new born flower aching for the sun, watching civilisations break into small fragments, piercing right through the fragility of our skins.

    there's this thing about people like me.

    we are named after recklessness.

    So, I carve my life out of withering affection and half-emptied glasses. the leftovers of love amidst the waywardness of destiny. from the fading light at the end of the tunnel and after the ones who are storms to the lighthouses.

    And then you come along.

    And I find myself believing against reason, against logic in this transience called life. Piercing my heart with promises till it bleeds yet another reason - why you deserve a chance.

    Suddenly I am a rough white canvas and you've loved colours since your childhood. Drenched in hues of your affection, I look like a bruise underneath a bandage which reads : H O P E.

    As you touch my skin with a sparkling tenderness, a lifetime of loneliness tapers and fades away into oblivion. In the arms of disquiet, I watch you nursing the brokenness that I call my soul.

    there's this thing about people like me.

    we wade out of lives unceremoniously.
    for they forgot to teach us how to stay.

    Love, what you don't know yet is that my heart is a graveyard with myriad tombstones engraved in the names of people who couldn't hold onto me.

    So, when you look at me with eyes filled with admiration, assuring me that you're going to stick by my side here,

    I cannot help but wonder how you're made up of glass and I've never learnt how to handle 'fragile with care'.

    For I am not afraid of you leaving,

    but love, what if you decide to stay?

    - Kainat // of reckless bruises and fragility of skins

    #mirakee #pod

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    of reckless bruises and fragility of skins

    Are you good at loving?