I used to be one, alpha and alone.
Then I met another and we became two.
A second pair of ones made us group to four.
Separate couples in love conjoined by the door.
I thought, "Yes, perfection resting in one place.
No single forsaken. No odd to replace."
And with the others I began to relate.
Between all my lovers, dancing figure eights.
Confusion was nowhere until one had left.
Disbanding impending, loneliness beset.
For what was I if not dependent on others?
And what was love if not so fragile to shatter?
An odd now, our pairs gone. Back to times once far past.
I should have known dancing figure eights would not last.
Creation, division, subtraction, addition.
Another number reluctant to submission
in hiding behind all these makeshift partitions
preventing us from making our own decisions.
I cast off my labels. I am not a one
because people are people and love is still love.
Whether odd or even, whether large or small,
partners will always forget about it all.
They care for the person and not for the name
which makes it my fault that they left all the same.
I'll still dance with numbers and laugh at their games,
but when sadness takes over, I'm the one to blame.
I'm not number but a person, a fraud,
and love is something of which I was never taught.
