Nuvole Bianche

Cupping the warmth of her cup of tea,
Watching the steam rise,
Her headphones blocking out the world,
She thinks.

The faces that pass her everyday,
That turn into a blur,
The faces that linger,
She thinks.

Of where she will be in the future,
Of where they will all be,
Where you will be,
She thinks.

Nuvole Bianche,
The piano speaks the words she could never say,
So she sits, alone,
She thinks.

© Copyright of Emily