By Joys Annika David
I rely on the sun’s constant kept time.
In awe, I glance out the window to see
paint strokes of color calling the day to
rest. There is more to life than the every
day bustle of mundane tasks. This, I think
of, sitting alone in the dusk’s coming
darkness, watching the light outside. I wish
I can capture the aura of these hours,
painting my gravestone with the still promise
of the unforeseen night, saying I lived
for this time in which shadows could form all
things, and so could I. There are only harsh
lines and smothering commands in daylight.
Tell me all you see in the morning and
I will tell you all that you miss to see,
revealed when the sun finally retires.
Despite their commonplace in stories, I
have only witnessed a falling star once.
3 A.M. Sunday night. Driving through streets
not bothered to be named. I did not think
of a wish during its millisecond
appearance. I thought of them all, after.
At first, they were simple—to have a good
year, a highly acclaimed career, to be
good at what I do. Then, they asked for more
wishes. They were of small, little desires.
To dance in public places without shame,
to stare at art in appreciation,
to say the first “hello” and last “goodbye,”
to look at the stars and not feel so small,
to know my wish if I had only one.
I did not take my supposed right turn;
I drove on, instead, through the unlit path,
devoid of sure shape, longing to be named.