I am broken eggshells with no yolks,
a snow angel with no body to fill me in,
a pool of water with no one to soak me up.
I am a musician playing to an empty room,
a movie playing to an unsold theater.
I am a frozen water bottle, unable to give.
I am a four year old ballerina in a pink tutu, with a salty tear-stained and pillow-marked face, who has woken up to a silent house.
I am dust to be swept outside and to be forgotten before the wind even blows me away.
I don’t know how to describe the aching pangs of loneliness, but they feel a lot like watching someone leave, when you’ve asked them to stay.
- The Aching Pangs Of Loneliness by Robi Foli (11/30 for NPWM)
I’m sitting in E Street Cafe in Encinitas and this guy just came in and sat down at the piano and started playing. Right now he’s playing a fabulous version of Pure Imagination… and I might start crying cause its so beautiful and I wish that was me…