Tonight, dinner for one.

Waiting for my pasta to cool I find myself undistracted, the computer unattended idling on its google searches, new software tips, music downloads. The CD player, which all night has skipped the happy dance tracks downloaded for friends, will only play baroque. I see movie soundtracks in every note.

Waiting for my pasta to cool I find myself burning my tongue, impatient to eat, to consume, to devour. To fill my stomach with something other than empty, to drive the pain from behind my eyes to my motionless mouth.

Waiting for my pasta to cool, I form words in my head that fall in graphite scribblings on a envelope back, literally. Words on paper soothe as if their appearance takes them out of my mind, and their meanings with them.

Waiting for my pasta to cool, steam clouds my glasses, blurs my vision. I could lose myself in clouds, I could cry tears no one will see.

My pasta sits untouched, until it's cold.