Cracks in the asphalt 

Filled with what looks like black glue

Cover the streets 

All the way to town. 

Crowded tree-lined streets with 

Strangely designed ancient homes.

Some are green or purple,

Others have ornate gates,

But they all have emerald lawns 

The oily black stripes 

Hold the gray asphalt together 

Assaulted winter after winter 

By the salt and cold. 

Expanses of road

Re-glued year after year 

I’m running out of reasons to go back

Except to see those black lines 

That form a map 

Leading me back to you.