There is something comforting about

the soft, dim fluorescent glow 

of the gas station parking lot at night. 
 

There is something soothing about

the sound of a tiny green plastic Bic lighter flicking,

the dull woosh of cars passing by or pulling in, 

the tinkling sounds of the leaves touching softly,

the hum of the parked car I'm inside of. 
 

We are 1000 feet from our shithole apartment 

that I love so much to complain about, 

but here in the parking lot, it feels like home. 

I light up and tell you about my day, 

you offer to run in and get me snacks. 

You don't really like to smoke, but you accompany me anyway. 

Plumes fill the car, escaping through the cracked window

as I slowly get stoned and work up an appetite 

laughing and saying the most ridiculous thing 

I can come up with just to make you laugh. 
 

There is something sad in feeling more at home 

in a shady place 1000 feet from your house,

but I'm grateful to be here with you.