“Wishes are made to be broken,” he says,
stacking up rotten dust-filled letters beside the trash can.
no matter what he says,
he was never able to throw them away. just a couple of years’ ago
his words would climb up tree trunks and lamp posts instead of
tripping and falling like a drunken figure on the rooftop the night before
Surely the candles that he keeps lighted up around the house at night
have more meaning than this words.
but the fact that they still don’t help him see in the dark
frightens me; to see him stumbling into a building, to the rooftop.

maybe the city lights from the roof would show him the missing step.

**I really don’t want him to fall.