The Wisher

One wish.

 

I watch the delicate eyelash

tremble

and then float lifelessly away from my finger.

I ponder my inevitable wish-making superstition,

questioning why I would even risk the puff

of a perfectly fine breath

for the impossible.

 

I know the wish could never be,

yet my mind is full of the wonderful

what-ifs;

the vast possibilities of the predicament.

I never expect anything to come of the

small,

unguarded dream,

yet hope is what keeps me alive.

Unique.

Without them,

I am only but a human.

This poem is about: 
Me

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