From my quiet perch upon the wall I am witnessing a gas station romance.

Young love that pulls up in a beat up van, coasting on fumes.

She is round with the fruits of his labor, carrying a child made of desperate wishes.

He is thin as a rail, allowing her to eat him down to a hollow husk of a person.

This is love.

They fill up the van with Hope and pay for it with The Need To Get Away

Her eyes are tired.

His eyes are hungry.

And for a moment he is satisfied, inhaling the nicotine laced smoke of childhood.

Silently she gasps at secondhand smoke, trying to recreate the past without harming the future.

This is love.

They get back into their van, share a kiss, and sigh

As they head off into the Wild Unknown of cheap hotels and one-horse towns.

From my quiet perch upon the wall I have witnessed a gas station romance