Like Eric Morecambe

Outside Southampton football ground
you told me you loved me.
Inside, the crowd roared.

I bought you a ring, a triangle
of diamonds. One for every month
we had known each other.
You declared it the most precious thing
you had ever touched.

I miss you.
The way next door's builders
would wolf whistle at you, and you
would cower behind me
like a puppy at the vets.

I miss the way you would make a joke
and then laugh loudly, take both hands
and slap my face
like Eric Morecambe.

I miss you, but I do not miss our interpreter
who we need to translate every word I said to you
into Japanese.