Every day
At eleven minutes past eleven
I think of you.
You were always superstitious,
Or maybe
You were just hopeful,
Looking for the end of your rainbow.
You never told me what you wished for,
Only tossed your hair
When I asked,
But I think I can guess.
You wanted wings
And you got them,
Or you’d still be here.
As for me, all I wanted
Was to be the end of your rainbow
But I guess you were always better
At wishing
Than me.
YOU ARE READING
The Wishing Game
Short Story"i think that someone hollowed out the stars and poured all of their magic into you."
