Jill MacCormack

Wishing, Wanting

If I thought that wishing might bring you near at night to me, I’d never sleep for seeking out first stars, shooting stars so that “wish I may, I wish I might.”
I would be known for crashing other people’s birthday parties in search of cakes for candle blowing, make silent wishes amid the stir I’d caused.
I’d set all the clocks in the world to eleven- eleven then scream “make a wish” and though I’d never tell, my wish would be for you to be with me.
I’d sing songs of wishing, be accused of wishful thinking, cover my yard with wishing wells; wear out my fingers pitching pennies in until the last minted penny was gone.
If wanting you were a virtue, my cup would over flow. I’d be canonized the patron saint of longing and lonely people would come to kiss my ring, but never you.
Instead, I’m left wishing and wanting, knowing you and I will never, ever be.

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