Castiglion Fiorentino, Italy

When I think back, it was during my study abroad travels that I first started writing poetry. I always traveled with my sketchbook, a lesson my professor instilled in me, which at this point was filled with sketches of buildings, until the last week when I finally took a moment to slow down. Wanting to remember everything, I took a moment to open myself up to the sounds of the world and just listen and watch. 

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Sipping my coffee, I watch as it sinks, lower, lower
People come in and out
Old friends
I feel the worn spine of my book, turning pages, passing time
A bit of foam lingers on my lips
Fingers warmed by their tight embrace
Conversations flow freely
A babies cry, newspapers crumple, mugs clink, laughter erupts
A Tuesday morning
Old friends
I linger in the corner, peering over my book
Language that I do not understand, people I do not know
Unfamiliar, yet I feel peace
I do not want to leave, I linger
My coffee mug turns cold, my book closes
It is time to leave my old friends