"I'd like to be a fly on the wall," you say. Would you? Would you really like to be privy to all that drama and intrigue, without ever being noticed? Sounds nice, I suppose. But I'll let you in on a little secret- That, my dears, is false advertising. Truth is, people always notice flies They just choose to ignore them And lower their voices when you buzz by on sugar-spun wings of self-confidence- Maybe it's just all in your head Maybe you've misinterpreted things-behind kaleidoscope eyes It always looks like there are more of them than you.
So you gain confidence You hover on the fringes of their circle And drone out a low hum of 'what've you been up to today?' Or 'how're you?' Or 'long day, huh?' The response is offhand A verbal flick of the wrist Batting the ball back into your conversational court Because coming at you with a fly swatter Or a rolled up Cosmo magazine Takes more effort than they're willing to give.
You buzz about some more Hoping maybe the silence will entice them to engage But no, They can't hear your buzzing Or they won't. So instead you stand Fly on the wall Content with watching the light catch your wings Repeatedly wringing your hands near your face In a way they probably think is malevolent I promise I'm not plotting- I'm just juggling the weight of my loneliness Maybe if I shift it from one palm to another Somehow I will lighten the load.
Take comfort in this, little fly- The sun makes your wings iridescent And even though they'll never get close enough to see that, you can. It's not a trick of the light Your fractal eyes do not deceive you- They are duplicate.