Rifhan Miller

“As for me, I’m watercolour. I wash off”
So remove this canvas, once over, twice over
I am a pretty picture, a four leaf clover
Peripatetic in the wind: you seize it, and then you release it,
...

I know a bubble boy,
I knew the boy before I got acquainted to his bubble.
He gave me a hug and smile
And then a bubble
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Someone once told me
That I’m some beauty queen
He couldn’t figure why
But he couldn’t take his eyes off my gaze and smile.
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I have a map/ it rests next to my cell.
A large map/ a dormant cell
With continents I’ve visited, tasted, touched.
Vast seas aplenty I’ve sailed away on
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When the sun hits
It feels like walking into a brick wall
Sometimes being led out of darkness is not a good thing.
I still don’t see any better now than before;
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“As empty vessels make the loudest sound”,
“So they that have the least wit are the greatest blabbers”

Words are meaningless – Like a temporary tattoo;
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You should know, I’ve only loved with my head
Even though my heart has ached with yearning
My heart: It was never an open book
I wrote what only looked good for reading.
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A journey shouldn’t be taken alone, though the ride is yours only
Sometimes you lose sight and slip away
Sometimes you seek help, then steer your own
When you jump to the next car, you can’t wrestle both wheels.
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Two sides of a page never co-exist, and won’t convene
Though the front’s all you’ve seen.
Its intentional ink blots and lipstick stains are obscured,
Its integrity smeared and blemished.
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It's midnight: 9th of June.
I am dreaming of a holiday,
Lacking your baggage clutched to my left waist.
Lying on a single bed,
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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.
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Under this roof, our hearts are pure; we don't cloak for show,
We don't tell: farce knows its place. We love; we are free.
You aren't disremembered; we aren't someone else's fairytale,
We materialize with no precondition.
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These hands do not seek the touch or warmth of another’s grasp.
For no one turns to a pair of begging hands, with a grain of sand and expects gratitude.
But they do not let go when they rest in a pair of palms that feel like home;
They will not unravel when secured through fingers that fit like a puzzle.
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Time is not a vehicle that heals the wounded.
The mind is.
Time remedies by keeping it bounded,
For our pain must be muted.
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The day before the day I lost my mind
Was the day I listened to the second hand of a clock
And consented it to it trash around my body and echo in my heart
My arteries thumped
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You: Whiteshoe Boy
How are your shoes today?
and those feet that rest in them?
Those feet that draw footsteps in the sand
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This Carcinogen Lady:
When God created humans out of soil,
A cigarette-smoking genie blew a balloon and thus she took shape.
While girls are made of sugar, spice and everything nice,
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The one who had swept me off my feet:
He has planted me back into the parched earth again,
and shackled me to his green-less thumb.
He is forcibly nurturing my attachment
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So you say the table’s dirty
Then I wonder:
Do you know that for a fact or do you assume the table’s dirty?
I wish I could ask you:
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So you are striving to show some human in you
by leaving a trail of sorrow with every regret.
tears you shed at every door.
You put me on show at every floor.
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