I wonder if Tommy ever thinks about me?

I wonder if Tommy ever thinks about me?

If I am still a word

a syllable

vocabulary against his lips.

I can't help but think of the way that he clung to me;

the way that his parents knew that one day he would be somebody

while the rest of us recognized that the chances of that were slim.

I wonder if he ever read what I wrote

if he still has the crumpled stack of poems that I handed him

shortly before he reached out for my cheek.

I wonder

if the silence that passed between us was accurate

deliberate on his part

and me

foolishly lifting my eyebrows

when he failed to communicate.

I wonder about his girlfriend

purple

sobs

always ready to break free.

His hand was in hers while he clung to me.

I wonder if she saw me as a threat

black

painted

lips

to steel her good little boy away.

I wonder what I was thinking

letting him reach out for me

letting him play with my hair

and speak to me

as though he were worthy to hear my voice.

The rest of us

battled

and fought with that women

-the devil-

behind her green stage curtains

and me

alone with the lavender paint brush

the lights

burning

glares

into us

as we talked.

Chaos

was that I recognized

his need for secrecy

when I asked;

the answer being:

"She was getting over a cold;"

How typical.

I wonder if he ever thinks of me?

As the days

drift past us

me here

and him

somewhere.

I wonder if he ever felt

what I think he felt

if he diluted the vibes that I was clearly excepting

while

everything else was alright

outside

and off of that stage

painted blue

to fascinate

the sleepy eyes of its audience.

I remember the way that you sucked up to them

and that

I hated you for it.

I wonder?

Did he ever read those poems?

Did he?