normalness

wanting to write
is not the same
as actually writing

and the longing
to fill the empty page
does not fill it

my mind remains
obstinately blank

all I have is…

how about a nice cup of tea
or maybe a few
and when can we watch
doctor who
and how I’d like
to snuggle with you

and though it rhymes
and represents myself
it’s hardly poetry

just the ramblings
of my mind
far too content
to wail and moan
or grandly talk
philosophy

just the lovely
normalness
of you and me
and quiet days
that pass so soft
and yet so swift

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