Wishing

by Felix Jung

Resting on a wooden dock, I’m seventeen,
flat pressed against the grain, the water
inches from my back. The stars are pale
and seem to hang against the black,
removed, but close enough for me to touch.

I’m talking with a girl, our hands
half-folded on our chests. We see
the first blur by and there’s a gasp.
In time another streaks like clockwork,
trailing down the sky. Each time I hold
my breath, I feel her do the same.

We wish, like children will, against
the future. I have never seen a star
fall down, and as I think of possibilities
she mentions family, of how she wants
her home to be at peace. I wish for her
to feel my pulse, to feel the way my chest
caves in whenever she walks by. Before
my hand can reach for hers, she points.

I want to be that boy again, that shy,
bewildered thing with nothing on his mind
beyond himself. I want the dock, the night,
another chance to cast my wish: to see
that star and see it spared, be given back
its life, its prominence, and never fall.