I have my wish list, hidden under the pillow,
reread in every deep sleep, memorized by day.
It’s much more than an old piece of paper
with crossed out words, silently vanishing.
some people exchange wishes for chances.
it makes thoughts materialistic, cold, and smooth.
how would it be to live breath to breath,
looks over the table with this aching urge
for a touch, to declare love by arranging letters
into words, like puzzles, lighting the room?