sometimes

just laying here

there’s no art

to be gotten from it

necessarily

with a forearm

behind my head

laying on the couch

looking out the window

wishing i had a typewriter

on my lap

to write what i am feeling now

suddenly

not expecting to

or looking for

this tree that i can see

through the window screen

moving so slowly

in an imperceptibly

soft breeze

that catches me

here laying

not expecting anything

from this moment

that has become so beautiful

all of a sudden

that i am forced

to get up and grab my phone

and come back quickly

to the couch

back under the covers

to resume right into

what struck me suddenly

and tried to enjoy

alone and unwritten

but couldn’t

just too beautiful

and had to

start writing

robbing me

of these moments

just to be enjoyed

silently, wordlessly

i can’t

have to capture

something in me

can’t let the beauty go

and can’t see the value

in keeping it for myself