comfort food

She sits there eating cookie after cookie, crème wafers covered in milk chocolate, chunky chocolate chip, double stuffed oreos, the chocolate covered kind that is sometimes hard to find in the stores. After two Italian subs, half a meatball, half a veal, and a whole eggplant (because the vegetables balances the diet, you know), all parmesan with double cheese and extra sauce (because she is so very oral, you know), and she is looking forward to the midnight snack, the two halves she did not just eat. It is only just after eight o'clock, after all, and she always has a snack before bed. The prime time hours have just begun, her favorite time of the day, so she has her snack tray laid out around her and she's making the great escape into other people's lives and carbohydrate heaven.

He knows how to be healthy, he's done it before, after all, as a former marathon runner and almost Olympian, yet he sits at his computer writing about his life, complaining mostly, because he must have given up on his dreams somewhere along the way, at least temporarily, long enough to pack on fifty pounds, much against his medical advice, and lose any connection with a social life, except for the messages on his computer. As midnight approaches, he drinks another Red Bull so he can continue on into the night, writing, writing, writing out his life, pouring out the loose thoughts and careless emotions that remain after whatever it was that shut him down and drove him to this, a shut-in existence linked to the outside world only by the umbilical cordless mouse-ball he ordered on the internet where he taps on into the night feeling like the king of his cyber kingdom.

They are two lost souls living in a fishbowl of electronic compassion, real as they want it to be. Her phone rings, she ignores it. The best part of her favorite episode is on and she must see it for the seven or eight hundredth time, year after year.

There's a knock at his door, he ignores it. He is on a roll and nothing can stop his fingers now for they are tapping out the symphony of his imaginary existence.

They are content, or at least numb, which is a form of contentment, I suppose.

the next word you say

do you want to make love tonight?
i mean how do you feel about it
i ask as a friend, not as a come on
are you one who can take it of leave it
or are you one who can't live without it

do you want to make love right now?
i mean how important is it to you?
money sex power food or possessions
which of these are most important to you?
i ask because i want to know you

before we can go any further
before we can grow any closer
we need to be honest with each other
about what really turns us on

oh sure we can fake an orgasm
or we can pretend we are kind
for a moment we can be anything
but who lives deep inside your mind
that's what i want to find

oh yeah we can be well in control
existential or generous or casual
for a moment we can be anything
but what really motivates your rise
and what would cause your fall

what i offer is what i want to receive
the most precious thing to me can only be
honest unconditional love and trust
if this is too much then just keep looking past me
i am looking for someone who understands
can we place our lives in each other's hands
not in some fantasy or fairy tail
but in the real world where we just might fail

there are no perfect people
only perfect intentions
can we trust we offer the same?
the next thing you do
the next word you say
will let me into your game
now will you tell me your name?

do you want
do you want
do you want
what do you want tonight?

do you want
do you want
do you want
what do you want tonight?