The speaker is stuck in a loop of hoping. The poem opens with a list of the small rituals people use to make wishes: the clock reading 11:11, a fallen eyelash, a shooting star, a dandelion blown apart. Each one is a tiny act of faith, and the speaker has tried them all, over what the poem calls "countless hours." The title, "escape_artist," only makes sense at the end, when we learn who is slipping away: the person the speaker keeps wishing about.
The mood is wistful, then quietly bitter. The early lines feel soft and almost pretty, with flowers and stars, but the speaker already admits the wish "won't come true." By the last lines the tenderness has turned into frustration. The speaker is spending wishes, love and time on someone who keeps pulling back. The short, broken lines mimic the waiting and the hesitation, and the final word, "you," lands like a small accusation.