The Lady With The Fringe Poem by Rifhan Miller

I own this page and I possess its turf,
So I shall divulge that:
I corresponded on our inconsequential flirtations,
And his sporadic reappearances when his pond was parched.
I painfully narrated his transgressive merry-making,
A crossroad and its long progression to end its intersection.
I wrote of bad weather – endured by us both – sodden and worn.
I trusted our fondness had seasoned;
It weathered upon your arrival,
Though you were oblivious and then you weren’t.

Then I genuinely spoke of release:
He would do without family given you were his escape.
He wouldn’t have it any other way,
Because you wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’d been sad when another verbalized your defaming,
And you had me profess through another (Have they been misplaced?) ,
That you were the crucible all along,
But you’d stand firm by his guile.
I have no reason anymore, to reason with you.

You never learned to contemplate both pages.
You never realized to probe his justifications.
You never understood you were the barrage,
And the autocrat to his torpor spine.
This rivalry - you should never have partaken - (The trophy really is you, not him)
You never ascertained the bad karma you’ve generated.
No… you never learned to see.

But I whisper in my prayers: may the end of this be just,
Because the world performs without order,
Though I’d not understand its concept of fair.
I’d always known I would suffer, but mine will conclude,
As yours will be set in motion.
You’d always desired to go to places, and perhaps you will
He’d always dreamt of going to places – he won’t.