I don’t miss your inane conversation,
or the way you make me wait to spit out each short sentence,
which you rarely let me finish in your impatience
to tell me the next pointless thing;
I don’t miss your inadequate wit,
which insults my ethics with its short-sighted prejudice;
I don’t miss your self-obsessed assumption that I will be interested
in your irritating and unwholesome hobbies
if you had the intelligence to pay the slightest attention
you would have wondered at my fascination for one
so limited in every way.
It’s your eyes, damn it;
I miss your eyes,
which said such different things
than those futile words which spilled from your lips.
©Jane Paterson Basil