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Don’t Ask If I Miss You.

Don’t ask me if I miss you.
I’m not some schoolgirl
Who’s lost her mobile phone.
Thumb still twitching
In her pocket.

Don’t ask if I miss you.
I’m not a smoker
On a long haul flight
Fingering a Marlboro
And eyeing the loo,
Biting off the head
Of some poor steward
Who put milk
In my tea.

Don’t ask if I miss you.
I’m not a poet
With a good idea
And a bad memory
Searching for a pen
That works.

Don’t ask if I miss you.
I’m a woman
Who’s lost her better half,
Her reason to get up in the morning,
Her breath and
Her life.

I don’t miss you,
I’m dead
Without you.

Submitted: Thursday, May 03, 2007
Edited: Monday, February 21, 2011


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Comments about this poem (Kind of Death by Sallie Howson )

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  • Tara very irritated with PH injustice (5/8/2008 4:34:00 AM)

    This, simply, is one thousand per cent brilliant. I wish I had written it. t x

    0 person liked.
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  • Joan Marques (5/6/2007 8:22:00 PM)

    Good heavens.... what a painful piece of truth for those who have gone through a similar hell.
    It's so true: you CAN live while you're dead. I know, cause I do.
    And you can only hope that one day you'll really live again. I know, cause I try.

  • Francesca Johnson (5/3/2007 6:36:00 PM)

    Sallie, this is poignant yet superb. You've expressed grief so well.

    Love, Fran xx

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