When the Fan Stops (Inspired by Trippie Redd’s Wish)

I’ve never been good at holding anything,
not even the light that shines
from the ceiling fan.
The switch might as well be off.
You came through the door,
half miracle, half lost.
When I saw you,
I felt like I could breathe, and suddenly
The tremble from the fan didn’t
seem that wobbly.


It wasn’t exactly the kind of wish
that cures world hunger,
but all in all
a wish that slips between
cracked and spaced ribs.


I wished for clarity like this.
Where no matter how much I felt
like I was running,
I didn’t run from myself,
and love would stay long enough
to notice.
That I too shake not just when I am afraid
But when I am happy.
When love said, “I’m here,”
it wasn’t loud.
It didn’t have to be.


But it made me forget
what a wish looks like
when it stops running.