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

missing is only missing

I’ve placed a bench beneath the trees
at the bottom of the hill

here I can watch all the world
but you walk by

but I’ve got hot coffee and the breeze
talking through the leaves

missing is only missing
when you feel it, just like

rain is only rain
when it’s falling down

and someday is the day when
you’ll come back around

© Sarah Whiteley