Wishful | Samipa Patel (9)

He wished on the brightest stars

and the deepest oceans,

the wildest winds

and the strongest trees.

He wished harder

than he'd ever wished

before, 

because nothing had

ever - would ever -

matter

this

much.

He sat by waves mournfully

crashing onto the shore,

owls mercilessly taunting him

as her laugh mocked him

echoing in caverns far and near.

The sea breeze wrapped him

in blankets of salt and her perfume,

floral notes just out of reach.

His head in his hands, he

sobbed

openly, too weak,

too vulnerable to hold it 

in any

longer.

He wished that she was back

right next to him, warm

amber eyes gazing into his own

crinkling at the corners at some

dumb joke. His lungs felt like molten 

lead, heart throbbing to escape

and run

and find her

and save her 

even if she was beyond saving.

It didn’t make sense. Why, out of

the billions of people

in the world was she chosen

to die, for her skull to lie among

the worms and beetles who would 

lick it clean, for her hands

to be clasped six feet deep and six feet

all too far

from him?

They were each other’s missing half, their

souls fitting each other like pieces of a

puzzle. But now he was

left with a thousand fragments

that pierced

like glass

to the bone, deep

wounds that time could

not heal.

It wasn’t fair for him to be left

behind. He should’ve died

first, he should’ve been there

to save her

and sacrifice himself, he should’ve,

could’ve, would’ve, 

but it was all too

late.

If only there was

a way.

He remembered leather bound 

tomes from his youth, the kind

that had the smell of magic

and mystic and things long

forgotten. Grimories in jet

black, 

vials of silver and gold,

webbing across his

memories. He

yearned for a way, and 

maybe, just maybe, 

he had found it.

He rushed with newfound

passion, feet flying up the 

slippery rocks because the

time was now to 

give all that he had.

The chest in his father's 

nearly-preserved room

opened with a creak,

dusty from years of unuse.

The laboratory's lights

Illuminated empty tubes

and pots

waiting and ready for him

to take command.

Soon, the room was alight with

bubbles and concoctions

yet not one showed any sign of gold.

He stormed around the room,

tubes trembling from his pure rage

and denial, the burden

of his grief gravitating the world.

It was four in the morning

when he finally stopped,

his hair half ripped out.

He had lost his better half,

and there was no way

to get the girl

who was dandelions

and butterflies

and the unattainable gold

of alchemy

back.