When I see the clock read 11:11, I still smile a little on the inside and make my wish, because I know that somewhere someone heard by 11:11 wish over a year ago and blessed me with you.
And then I think of the straight lines, the individual ones, so many of them — 11.11.11 11:11 — that melts together into just one.
11:11.
Yes, I still wish. I wish to hold you for just a little longer, wish that whatever it is about me that keeps you coming back will linger around me for another day, another week, another semester. I wish that you won’t tire of the pressure of my face buried into that dent between your shoulder and your chest. I wish to hold your hand for a little bit longer.I really, truly wish that you won’t become annoyed with this emotional wreck of a roller coaster that is my mind.I wish that you’re still as intrigued with my inner 16-year-old, the one that dances for hours in 3 inch heels, star gazes at 4am, hangs upside down off the side of the pool… the same 16-year-old that rashly hid the scrambled mess of a harshly disciplined 17-year-old, a poisoned 18-year-old. Even more so, I wish that you can still care for the totally lost and wandering 19-year-old me that is trying very hard to balance professional composure with that vibrant 16-year-old carelessness and passion for life.
And if these do come true, dare I wish for one more?I wish that one day, I can look you in the eyes and say those three words without feeling corny or sappy or cliche… or like I’m about to hurl.
