opposite love

on mornings when I am my opposite self,
I do not tuck myself into the chair and do not
sip cautiously at the too hot, too sweet,
too dark coffee from my un-favorite cup

I do not gaze out at the un-regalness
of the crow pine and most certainly do not
recall with satisfaction, or with spreading warmth
the not-stillness of your arm not at rest on my back

on mornings when I am my opposite self,
and you are, of course, un-charming you,
I do not find the emptiness of your pillow
a not-manageable vacancy, until the night
your not-loved head fails to not return

© Sarah Whiteley

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