to write and send a million letters to you,
then being returned back to me unread,
is like wishing on the stars in the sky,
which, in reality, are people who are dead.

wishing on falling leaves or feathers,
why must i use those things
if they themselves have fallen
from branches of life and free wings?

why would i believe in the luck of a penny,
when money can't buy your love?
the colorful palette will revert back to gray,
no matter how many rainbows are above.

there's one more thing i can wish upon;
they told me the moon's a way that's sure.
but how will my wish come true,
if it's you i'm wishing for?