Ryan, if you can’t see me, don’t bother to look.
If you won’t listen to my voice, don’t ask me to speak.
You will always be too young
to know you’re unhappy.
All your life you’ve asked why.
Why do the clouds move?
Why are birds so small, their songs
lonely and happy?
But the time for why is over,
and if you keep begging me for answers,
I will have to let you go, blonde boy of my birth,
tender pup-child, wild and bewildered.
I don’t want to let you go. You are my beginning,
my tiny innocent traveler, my homesick alien.
Please don’t ask me again where you’re from,
if you won’t believe you are home.