11:11

When 11:11 roles around, I wish that you would text me.

Since Thursday, I’ve never missed an AM or PM opportunity to submit my wish.

Now, it’s Monday morning and I’m up to eight consecutive, ritualistic wishes.

The truth is, I wasn’t aware I was doing it until this very moment.

I just checked my phone, and when I saw the time, I closed my eyes and wished.

I realize how incredibly mystic/passive/nuts this sounds, but it’s really the only action I can control to redirect you back to me.

Sure, I could text you. But then what?

I spend the rest of my day waiting for a reply?

I agonize over every word I wrote, second-guessing the language and grammar?

I fuck this up?

I could grab our relationship with both hands and steer. But for once, I want someone else to take the wheel.

And honestly, I just want to be the recipient of someone else’s impulse.

That’s not stupid, is it?

Texting you could also put what we’ve got in jeopardy.

Because right now, this is delicate and freshly minted.

To me, it’s safer to invest in shooting stars, and genies, and cyclical 12-hour chances.

My birthday isn’t until July, but I can reserve that wish for you, too.

We’ve got all the time in the world, don’t we?