He read somewhere, he
was an only child
like a one-armed man,
a type of tree whose
leaves never sprout,
turn colors or fall.
Even his shadow was
half of a shadow, limping
behind him. Some people are twins.
Do two eggs make an omelet?
Of course, it was his
right to feel alone
walking in a crowd
of brothers, sisters,
lovers. But he
could not have known
how singularly single
is the grave. He rests
beneath his headstone
feeling vindicated.
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