Admission

I often wonder how they think.

I wonder if they experience the same thing I do.

The name of a lover – past or present – flickering.

With each blink, a glimpse of a memory.

I wonder if they can turn the lights off.

Let a spotlight shine as if it’s the only thing that matters.

The star of the show.

I wonder if their memories have stage fright.

If when the spotlight is fully focused, the memory folds in on itself.

Scared to sing its song.

Or maybe their memories are performers.

They sing as well as dance and juggle.

They perform all sorts of acts.

For the attention.

I wonder if they think about me.

If the memories I am in are for stardom or for understudy.

Perhaps neither.

Perhaps an audience member.

Or even a passerby of the theater.

Longing to be let in.

Nobody pays any mind to it.