On the long
to stretch my chest,
and that thing inside of it,
I see a coyote crossing the street.
It turns and looks at me
and says, "Ryan, you suck."
It scampered off
into the suburbs.
Each volume of this translation
makes me thirsty.
On the backs of our images,
there are song lyrics.
Metaphors may have taken my breath again,
and releasing it elsewhere,
like a stolen bunny
born to belong in another space and time.
Each city in the sky
has a you and an I,
and that is the reason why
we continue to try.
I know I suck,
I don't need to hear it from a dream coyote,
because I want to hear it
from your face before I kiss those lips like the movie, The Notebook.
Get curious on this digital hill,
because even a tiny smirk is a smile,
and I will never find eyes more gold
than yours looking through me.