Living, not writing

I've been too busy living
day to day, just enjoying
every ordinary hour, every
unspectacular moment
to write much about it.

I'm loving all the small
things, every single
nothing-special minute
of every passing hour
of every ordinary day,

from the fresh fruit in its
cracked Chinese bowl
for breakfast to listening
to stories on Kindle
with the man I love,

from the smell of washing
brought in dry from
the line to the Goodnight,
sleep tight kiss shared
with that whiskery man,

from his jazz practice
to the NHS letter dismissing
him from further treatment,
from the breeze-fresh tickle of
rain in the air to the prickle

of hot water in the shower.
Perhaps I'm just too busy
living and sharing and loving
each precious day to take
time to write about it?

LIVING, NOT WRITING