Rolling Hills

I carry you in my pocket,

Right next to my license 

And a diminishing stack.

The decade old worn leather,

Barely holding it together.

You follow me through the pines

That seed our rolling hills

And among the impoverished--

Sad homes built on land fills.

To where the roads have no end

And the asphalt cracks into oblivion   

I only belong where the journey intends--

I behold your words again and again

And my lonely heart begins to mend.