I pick through inbox rubbish

Weeding out the worthy princes

Asking for my savings to

Be sent to bank accounts

In Africa, it’s fine,

I’ll get a million back.

And then there’s ads

For pills delivered to my door

And hats for cats

And other curiosities

That I’ll never need.

And then I scroll down to your name

And see the subject line.

I’ve read those words a thousand times:

It’s me, not you,

I’ll miss you more

Than you’ll ever know.