Ben C. O. Grimm

I have to be here. My presence is needed. Does that come as a surprise to you? Don't look at me like that. No, listen to me for once. I can wave flags at you, I can use lipstick capitals, I can use the knuckle press. But I won't. Not this time. Just breath and vocal cords. Just a tongue and lips. Expressions and eyebrows. From a distance. Is the need for balance justified? What's so fascinating about even numbers, when odd is the rule? How can I see and breathe when I'm in your bag? I'm looking at the world, and a small, persistent fly claims portions of the view. It invariably tries to land on my nose. It wants my gaze. It wants my attention. And when I look past it, it starts to rub its wings in an inescapable manner. The fly seems lost without the nose. I wish the nose had lost its purpose. I would rip it off and place it a thousand or more miles from here. But it's here and I need it. You know that. I know that you know. I have to be here. I feel like a lighthouse sometimes, covered in blind moths. I try to emit light, but the harder I try, the thicker the fog gets. I want to be seen by faraway ships, to communicate my message to wayward sailors. All I do is illuminate your wings. Your blindness doesn't seem to bother you, as long as I'm in the middle, where you can find me without looking. Just outstretched fingers and greedy lips. Sometimes you're not in sight. But the questions keep coming in. I can't afford not to answer them. Silence is at the top of your list of no-can-do's. You find it alarming. "Please confirm. Do you read me? Confirm, please. Confirm my presence, even if you can't see me." Yeah, roger. I know I'm here. You think I'm over there, and that body and mind can be separated whenever you need them to be. I'm being strangled. An umbilical cord made of kevlar. When I want to break free, you think I'm pulling you towards me. Your hungry mouth and prying tongue taste and probe my flesh. You need me here to rub against, to echo the stream of words. You need me for your answers. You're begging me for questions. Any excuse to establish communication. The subject doesn't really matter. Talk I must. I have to be here. I'm a treasure, I'm a doll, I'm a pet. Whatever I am, I'm in a locker, in a filing cabinet, in your pocket. Living proof of your existence. The counterbalance. The fuse. The fuel to your engine. I'm being claimed without a ticket or receipt. I'm being grabbed and kissed, licked and bitten. What is liberty? It's what's left. And it's being claimed. Every inch of it. I have to be here. Bitter tears prevent me from leaving. Isolated on an island in a sea of blame. The radio screams: "I'm coming over!". Who needs permission to use the small landing strip? I'm shouting into the mike, but you cut the cord. I'm forced to listen. "Almost there!". I can go for a swim and pretend not to be there. But where can I go when you're in a position to watch my every move? So I sit and wait. I offer my lips and hands. "Something wrong?". How much bigger do you want me to make the signs? I can scream at you, but you will admire the smell of my chewing gum. I can take a few steps back, but you smile because you think I'm going to leap into your arms. You crush me between your arms and bosom. Aren't we happy? Aren't we together? Aren't you mine? A small object, jaded by abrasive fluids. An endless dance of kisses and admiration. Held up to the sun, your sweaty palms ruining the surface. A mirror image, distorted by my uneven nature. You take it to be true. You can't stop watching and seeing yourself like you think I'm seeing you. You emulate me. A blind carbon copy. And the original is in your bag. Open it. Give it to me. Hand me the keys. Mind if I borrow your plane? Stay close to the radio. Never mind the broken mike. Wave if you can hear me. Yeah, I see you. You're so small. Stop waving. There's a mirror in the tent to keep you company. It's yours. Over and out. Throttle. Altitude. Solitude. Check.

© Ben C. O. Grimm