I measure the passing of time
in expired milk,
empty fairy liquid bottles,
and bin bag collections
Mostly because it’s easier
Easier than remembering years
Years when you were here
and years now when you are not
It’s not that I am sad
Not all the time
It’s just that there is a beautiful
but overwhelming melancholy
A mountain of gentle sorrow
that can rise in the corners
of my eyes if I let it
I am not sad.
But I miss you.
Don Lowe 