A Wish to End All Wishes

I used to wish, used to pray, for things to last. Sometimes, I admit, I still do. I used to dream, used to believe, that some things last. I must admit, indeed I must, that I no longer believe that. But I am wrong, and I am scared, and my fear deludes me to make one wrong turn after another in the darkest corners of my mind’s endless maze, where no lamps are lit, where no fireflies glow. I turn and I turn and I stumble, fall, land on sweet moss kissed with dew; I am too tired to keep turning. In the starless sky of my weary mind, the moon rises alone. She tells me to stop wishing, that there are no stars to wish upon, not tonight, not now, perhaps not ever again. She tells me that stars were not made for wishes, that they were made only to light our way when we are lost. She tells me that love needs no wishes, that if we recourse to wishes, then what we have is not love. I listen. I weep. Crickets chirp like a thousand mothers seeking to stop my tears. The moon is still. Her impassive face watches over me. “I w-w-wish,” I whisper nonetheless, to whichever gods listen to lovers and children who have lost their way, “that I would never have to wish again.”