Is it the Happy Meal and the co-op deal

the drive-by snack, the two-for-one

flowers he bought from the garage lot,

the cheap card with the cheesy rhyme

the coffee cup he left by the sink

the rim of grime around the bath,

the trail of socks, the biscuit crumbs,

the note he left on the fridge door saying: Sorry

no milk–

is it the smiley face he drew in the sand

the way he snored and gasped in his sleep,

how he never said ‘I love you’

in so many words, how he never said ‘I love you.’

Is it the way he unwittingly held your hand

as you strolled across Lossie Sands,

how he stroked your cheek when you had his child,

how he never gushed over babies till then, 

how he never cried (or let it show)

how he never said ‘sorry’ 

though his eyes said other,

how he never did the dishes or took out the bins, 

how he always missed the pot;

is it wishing the days would never end

when all is said and done is never said? 

When the sofa misses him like a hole in the head

and the dishes cry out for him, when heaven 

is never close enough, when your baby son 

becomes him–

when the flowers he bought from the garage lot

are left to rot on the sill, and the Happy Meal box 

is a shrine to his imperfect timing,

when the note he left on the fridge door is an act of devotion

when the empty coffee cups run rings around you, 

when the bins are left for another day

and the trails of socks are footprints in the sand–

when the words he never said are left unsaid, 

when he never said ‘I love you’ in so many words.