Kainat woolgathering; indefinite hiatus.

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  • musings_ 24w

    The feed is currently under maintenance. I've taken down most of the pieces for editing (an agonizing ordeal) indefinitely.


    a famished gust of breeze heaves; the storm-tainted city limps on the cusp of collapse; now veiled, then crumbled.

    the willow shivers down to the runnel of his spine, combed-out branches hanging wobbly along its sides; the rasp of a grated wood; under a frosty fete of insensate fury, the white jasmine nestles closer to the moonlight-coloured May; laying her head on the nook of its nape; the wild rose and ivy serpentine, bereft of warmth in a balm-less dusk, quiver - an ambush of avowals; an ardent discourse of roofless mouths.

    an October night dismembered across its seams; unravelled lie the threads of a fractured memory.

    A jaded discord betwixt the mist and the mud, the stifled sky of June fondles the bruised face of the moon in her undulated palms, sullen, shrivelled like the wings of a limb-less moth; dangling weary over the soil, above the rhythmic sway of trees - stroked with olive and bottle-green; dotting the moor like obelisks.

    a wilting flower droops tired on the face of the wet gravid; a rusty inflorescence; before I crouch on my knees and prune the grey-beige petals apart; carrying the iris into your room, I place it into a lukewarm tumbler; in an aura of uncanny unicity, we solemnize; kindled by the blaze of the sun. you hold my hand against the coarse-grained fabric of your flannel;

    "Do wilted flowers reincarnate?"

    A veil of soot laid bare on the ivory of the wood; I caress your forehead, shrouded with auburn tufts of dishevelled hair; withering underneath my reverent fingers; the litany of loss; a battered rosary of breaths.

    yet on your mouth, a smile. faint, lopsided;
    a feeble rustle in the woods; a leaf quivering in timidity; a patient misgiving before it unfurls, a palm at the freshly laundered azure;

    And I take it.

    "If we give them time," a gentle reverberation; a silver resonance embroidered on the hem of the gust, a fragrant redolence.

    A cold gush of rain, the rasp of a grated wood. I lay my head against the polished mahogany; embalming a memoir of melancholia; a pungent stench strewn across the pavement; jasmine crushed under departing feet; the aftertaste of bitter almonds on a baked tongue, this sorrow; in abysmal viridity, the cedar weeps; a brumous sky disembodied over the sway of trees; olive, bottle-green, crimson.

    In an October night being torn across its seams, an impoverished wind pulsates; unravelling the thread of a fractured memory, I pull the cashmere shawl over my drooping shoulders; wilting; only unakin a tired stalk on the gravel; rather a severed stem; an ignominious denudation; this grief - an amputation.

    A staccato of steps, he loiters into the room toward me; tousled strands of hair falling off his shoulders, splinters of fire; I crouch on my knees to embrace him when I see it - a blossom cradled in his hands; wet, glistening waxy petals, amaranthine deepening at the edges; on his mouth a smile - faint, lopsided;


    "What do we call this flower that blooms all over the moor?"

    a feeble crinkle in the woods; a tremulous leaf unfurling like a palm;


    And I take it.


    - Kainat



    i) "moonlight-coloured May and ivy serpentine," - Shelley's The Question.
    ii) "jasmine crushed under departing feet," - Agha Shahid Ali.

    #pod #lovexloss

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    Be love in its disrepute -
    scorches a hillside and salts every root;
    watches the slowing and starving of troops;
    or be like the rose you hold in your hand
    I will grow bold in a barren and desolate land.
    - Be // Hozier

  • musings_ 60w

    A tribute to Miller.

    Also, long and disjointed.


    Grey clouds disregard the thoughts sifting through your mind like the fragrance of ripe mangoes wafting through the swollen breeze, suffused with disconsolation; the mellowed orb loiters stifled in the mist; fervid in a gentle furor of dispassion; in a dawn spun from the smeared silk of the simmer of an ache; like the pulsing warmth of a petal-veined arm; like a river fractured into tributaries.

    A pale, dismembered leaf held to a flame;
    October sighs unprecedented as the air nibbles away in defiance of brumous skies; a frenzied, discoloured levitation; a sudden tinge of colour sears through your cheeks, a small rose blooming from a cracked, beige pavement; and a smile hangs loose from the corner of your mouth; a tremble of a caress, your slender fingers wade the strands of hair off of my temple, the nascent tendrils of a grapevine -

    'this,' a faintly-winged whisper.

    your voice cascades on the singed fabric of my skin like a rivulet of molten honey; a lilting symphony asunder - with a texture that sifts onto buoyancy, a weight that slips through my fingers like polished ivory; tracing away the creases of the body anew-

    'this, and this, and this,' you murmur.

    (jagging away in the realm of the forbidden.)

    Unhinged in flounder, May muffles in the crucible of conformity; slow and smothering; over coffee-stained yellow pages, a faint candle irradiates a honey-coloured shoulder with a faint bruise ashen into laceration; a glittering raindrop sewn to your skin; a sliver of silver, moonlight dances on your wrinkled forehead; a threadbare blanket come undone.

    you weave elegies on longing; wounded in collective passivity, fettered and fazed; hovering on the brink of a feigned semblance, succumbing to the tyranny of loss.

    a withering dusk of August cradles the base of a lovely throat in calloused hands; like a piece of sandpaper against jagged marble; abrasive beyond substance; you sit beside me on the distempered pavement; a string of staccatoed notes receding in the darkened room. you smile gently against my ear; giddy with freedom.

    'this,' you say.

    'this, and this, and this.'

    (a volition of conniption against injustice; a coffin of love cradled within a parenthesis of commas.)

    tonight, a sullen morning of October milks a reverie of loss in its arms; moonlight dances on empty oak desks, a hand-dyed journal sits shimmering in dust at the edge of a rusty drawer; uncreased and unstained and unsullied. a watery-white wreath of words saturates the air; a lace of pearls coming off loose. an ambush of faint prayers, a reverberation of rioting fervour; like petals of a rose unfurling in spring.

    (bequeathed by a love so powerful, it purloins you into helplessness.)

    A misty face streaked by a string of tears,
    (like moonlight dancing on a stolen mountain)
    the air rendered suffused with disconsolation; a jadded voice cracks on the floor like a piece of fine porcelain.

    'Do you have any memories of him?'

    (a sudden tinge of crimson shading a pale cheek; a broken smile hanging off loose from a rebellious mouth; slender, tapering fingers at the edge of a dusky temple; a ruffled blanket wrinkled along the edges bearing the weight of time; a bruise adorning a honey-coloured shoulder, a lilting symphony asunder; a realm of conformity, a coffin of love)

    in a dawn smeared with loss, the swollen wind traces the creases at the nook of my nape; the pulsing warmth of a petal-veined arm; like a river fractured into tributaries.

    'this,' I hear myself say.

    a faintly-winged whisper.

    'this, and this, and this.'

    - Kainat //

    Largely because of @veloc1ty_ :)

    Thank you for the honour @mirakee.

    @iamsleepy @jeelpatel @clockwork_mnemosyne @artsyy @raika @sereiin @tanya @seyfert

    #lovexloss #pod

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    And the day that we'll watch
    the death of the sun
    That the cloud and the cold
    and those jeans you have on
    Then you'll gaze unafraid as
    they sob from the city roofs
    - Hozier, Wasteland baby!


  • musings_ 69w



    on a timid summer evening, under its unsparing glare, the sun was mellow; a splinter of molten gold, dripping forth the horizon, spilling across the azure in softened hues of yellow and peach and brown; golden-brown, coalescing into a bleak crimson; amidst streaks of wispy clouds, blotched apart like a blob of milk wiped away by a pair of clumsy hands.

    over the molten radiance of daylight, amidst a startling jamboree of letters, you reel off a piece of poetry at odd edges; chipping it away bit by bit, piece by piece; like a multitude of pomegranate seeds against a bitter mouth; till it reeked of nothing but the lingering sillage of reminiscence. as thin as a fleeting thought, at the end of a tiny stalk ---- leaves quiver in the swollen breeze; it pours into the tiled balcony like a chaotic humdrum of cracked voices, a frenzied incoherence; a clinking melody of battered breath resounding in the morning air; and the sentences roll off your parched lips.

    (why does affection borne off complacency nibble away to leave me bruised?)

    basking in the warmth of nostalgia; a cold caress of your calloused fingers; crescent-shaped moons on each end, a metal band rusting away on one; traced away the mole on my temple. misplaced like two semi-colons in a prose; you unveil a memoir behind the scar on your wrinkled forehead; layer by layer, like pulling out a thread from your sepia sweater; sharing a slice of secret. the light trembles on cream, distempered walls; on the nape of you neck, a tenacious bead of sweat glistens; like a string of pearls on the fabric of dusk; and I tend to your wounds with a dusty-quiver of dismembered words.

    (why does longing yielded off brief intimacy endure like a gaping wound?)

    in the flickering radiance of a September night, you leave questions in the wake of your departure; stretching around me like a ball of yarn; an obscure blanket of dusk envelopes. the breeze suffused with a dull ache; fuzzling out in pale merlot; branches hang loosely like nimble arms; palms lacerate in burnt ochre and singed sienna in a day cracking apart like lime-stone.

    (why does memory ---- devoid of texture, substance and colour, mar my days in rouge crimson?)

    redolent in amorphous moments; a series of hushed sobs under a creased sky, I hold the hem of the pinafored sea and breathe in the sour smell of water; till I all I do is reek of salt - on my mouth, on my hair; salt brimming in my veins; bruised by a memory that bleeds fresh in my mind.

    only love is all maroon.

    - Kainat //

    For Neha and Sulagna.
    Thank you for reinstating my faith in kindness. :)

    #pod #lovexloss

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    lapping lakes like leary loons
    leaving rope burns; reddish rouge
    [only love is all maroon]
    - flume, bon iver

  • musings_ 75w

    to you,
    my words end
    where you begin.

    (this is just a vague endeavour.)


    the dawn tosses, rises and breaks on a stolen mountain. a golden orb looms betwixt drifting white clouds that break apart in the middle of the sky, a freshly-washed laundry blue; wrinkled along the edges. Autumn caresses broken leaves in his calloused hands, bleached in a dying crimson; butterflies move and dance about in an inebriated air, never ceasing to dance; unsubstantiated colours pouring into the room like amorphous, shapeless thoughts; a loss inherited along with twisted bones and aching joints. The cold breeze swells and raptures; reverberating a clinking melody of battered breath -

    But I swear this is not about you.

    (how long does a borrowed memory purloin before it becomes your own?)

    over the crinkled skin of the cold morning chai, you doned a bitter shade of anguish; uncloaking your misery only in the lingering gaze of another; under the glaring light of obscurity; pale hands falling in a frenzy of incoherence; borrowed breaths descending off my weightless skin. As a sullen June sighed unprecedented; sentences rolled off your barren mouth, vaguely; phrases disintegrating into mere words, scattering around like pomegranate seeds in a humid summer evening, rising higher and higher before breaking down into hushed whispers; on a dried terrain, bereft of moisture.

    a gentle touch chiselling away at your resolve, chipping it off at odd edges; eroding the enamel of all essence till nothing remains, nothing subsides. till all you are is a cracked urn, fractured at the very bottom. brimming with an overwhelming emptiness.

    (how long do I keep milking a broken reverie till my skin reeks of weariness?)

    on a sultry evening of July, you soaked more warmth than the singed fabric of the night; sunlight bathing your hair, ever so gently as I glanced at your rusty-winged quiver of words, flinching at the realisation of failing to bear witness to the ache that fogged all your days; an insipid hue of sepia; a shattered shard of glass piercing through the fragility of a life, half-lived. in the dusky radiance of a September night, you left behind the transient warmth of the air, suffused with a remorseless dissonance.

    (how long does a remnant simmer till is it fully baked; forged in the crucible of agony?)

    Autumn arrives with a husky voice and little stutter this year, as I weave elegies out of coarse yarn; in yellow, blue and mossgreen; questions thread to the fabric of a night that holds me captive, in its shuddering arms.

    I seldom write now. For if I do, they ask me about you; in a futile attempt of feeding a curiosity invoked; all essence dissolves in a shabby sentimentality, a shallow faux, a nervous chuckle, anything that deters, but doesn't answer. words falling in a frenzy of incoherence, like yours.

    I do not write anymore. For if I do, I am a forgotten massacre; a pulsating ache.

    For if I do, it reeks of a borrowed memory, a broken reverie, a simmering remnant - a mosaic of a dusky face in half-baked moonlight; perishing away on the altar of conformity. But this-

    I swear this is not about you.

    Kainat // June 22, 2020.


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  • musings_ 77w


    Under the crushing weight of the inevitable, Keats, in the evening of his life, expressed how he could feel the daisies growing over him; underneath the moist green and gold of the earth, underneath the weeping, weary sky.

    With all essence dissolving in mortality, (like the empty cadence of a fading symphony) memory raptures like the seeds of a dandelion, suspended in the air. An umitigated desire to resort to stupor weighs heavier than the frailty of trying (with a frantic head and a heaving chest).

    a concert of ragged breaths laded on your lungs.

    outside, the tiny, timorous branches of shal hang like wobbly arms along its length; searching for a rusted souvenir lost in the realm of anamnesis, a jagged smithereen of a broken memory, a calloused memoir of aching familarity - misplaced agony embroidered in the air.

    tonight, there's a smidgen of rain across the grey skyline; a searing agony wading from the pagan sky to the parched earth. the wind carries the sillage of borrowed dreams in its palm, a lingering scent that used to trace your path here.

    in molten reminiscence, your fingertips trace the warm contours of my pale back, skin against skin; flesh against flesh; trembling with desire, bones straining under the weightlessness of grief. my spine melts like aromatic wax, under the glow of a candle, flickering on the bedside. The warmth slides off my skin, too feeble to thaw the winter within. I am left untouched, a pair of sinuous limbs falling into a graceless heap.

    outside, another swollen evening rises and cracks at the threshold of summer; the air smothered in defiance as you caress my face (cold and coarse) and arrange a row of violets, neatly along the curve of my back. flowers bloom in the cracks of my calloused skin.

    (you say it's a flowerbed,
    I call it a tombstone.)

    As the dusk melts away into nothingness, all we have is the haze of the night. in the radiance of the tapering light, we render the bones of desolation naked tonight before melting away into murky somnolence. a river parts to make way for your departure at dawn,

    half-baked moonlight falls on your face,
    (a crescendo of a half-lived life reverbrates in the arch of my spine), the words roll off your tongue,

    "Where do we go from here?"

    a wave tosses its crest, rises and shatters at the shore. the shal trees bend their crooked backs and sigh as a memory breaks like a piece of porcelain in clumsy hands.

    (parted waters seldom find their way to the sea here.)

    tonight, loneliness aches to touch peace with its bare hands, and as the rain traces its path to salvation, ever so gently; betwixt the wet, gold of the earth and the weeping, cerulean sky-

    I can feel the daisies growing over me.

    - Kainat // of flowers fading away in youth

    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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  • musings_ 84w



    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, reverberating 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 left at the mercy of wondering:

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

    - Kainat //

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  • musings_ 102w


    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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    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_ 107w


    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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  • musings_ 107w


    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.

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

    - Sufjan Stevens


  • musings_ 110w


    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

    A dalliance with loss. Bear with me, y'all.

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