This is a song about wants, needs, and longing. This is about seeking peace in forbidden moments. The clock tick takes its toll Lights flicker their reprimand The demands of what might have been The drought of love Quenched from the flask upon my hip A bit of fire is sipped and through the doorway slips The apple of my eye, her John that stands beside He hands me the currency and demands the key With transactional courtesy, I retrieve the key for room three Where he will fulfill a fantasy Not meant for me Unfortunately They give you a peek at their secrets, their pretext Their sweet scents, laments, jewelry, silk and leather It isn't business… it is ritual… subliminally sublime A liminal time defined by a surge of urgency They may pay for your time, but they take a bit of your light How I envy the way they can satisfy your needs in the night I sweep the room with a faint smell of salt and the sea A faded picture of a woman that he can not see A port to anchor his heart so his soul can be free And find a semblance of resemblance of who he used to be He needs a friendly shore to escape the endless tide A moment where swells of memories can stop breaking He has found a harbor, this haven where he can hide And pays for a comfort that the ocean has taken He buys the calm, the comfort, the peace He casts away the countless days that ate away His dreams, his soul, what made him whole to find The truth taboo, this motel room where they lay They may pay for your time, but they take a bit of your light How I envy the way they can satisfy your needs in the night The next client’s role portrayed by the man of many faces I smell the greasepaint and the faint perfume of the stage He leaves behind the curtain calls, the judgment of those places No chalk mark lines or set designs, it’s here he finds A dark room where his name will not be spoken An audience of one, a private show consigned Bought in minutes where the fourth wall is broken Another version of himself, one that has not yet died He buys the calm, the comfort, the peace No Wednesday matinees or things the critics say No marquee sign, autographs, or forgotten line Improvising the design of a better day They may pay for your time, but they take a bit of your light How I envy the way they can satisfy your needs in the night The man with the satchel of letters, regret and dust The politician, who buys a silence that only money can trust The gambler, the hustler, those who chase the thrill The lonely physician who pays just to sit and be perfectly still I see them all, they are the commerce of the night A reservation of a truce with truth, reservations removed And try to buy the grace that has been lost from sight I have a desk These keys And this love but it's no use I don't have their riches, the fast wealth that they bring I offer my heart, my soul, this longing Not a bartered charter, signed in haste A desperate space with faith misplaced You give them your nights, but I crave your dawn And I would trade what little I have Take it all Gone
