The cool fall air mercilessly nips
at my uncovered shins;
I silently curse myself
for not wearing pants.

Velvet night envelops
our little world.
Stars, like freckles on cheeks,
dot the night sky in a random
yet mesmerizing pattern.

I approach our building.
It's a habit now--
my neck automatically ***** back,
searching desperately for the light above.

No, not the stars' light
coming from miles and miles away;
I crave the artificial yellow light
of your room, to assure me
that you're there.

I know it's crazy and stupid
(and definitely creepy)
of me to do that,
but I just can't help it.

You're supposed to
make a wish
on a shooting star,
but I'm using
your light instead.

Saying it aloud won't
make it come true,
but now I've got
nothing to lose.

My wish every night
as I walk back home
is that one of these days
you'll be searching for me
too.