I look to the heavens in quiet plea,
asking the stars to remember me—
to send one soul, gentle and true,
who will choose my heart the way I choose you.

I'm tired of loving in borrowed ways,
of holding on through lonely days,
on giving warmth, then standing alone,
pretending my aching heart is stone.

Do stars really listen when we whisper our wishes,
or is believing meant only for children?
Let us not pretend—love is not a game,
it's fragile hope we carry through the pain.

As we whisper our dreams into the thin air,
the stars keep shining, unaware.
When will it ever be my turn?
How many tables of heartbreak must I earn?

I keep on wishing on the star above, like a child asking for a gift,
knowing I'm too old for fairytales, yet still begging for this—
to be chosen, to be held without fear,
to love without wondering when it will disapper.

So if the skies are listening still,
if mercy bends to human will,
let love find me, soft and kind—
a home, a hand, a heart that's mine.

And if love comes only when I'm empty,
when event dreams refuse to stay,
let it find me wandering the dark,
asking the night where hearts decay.