The Loneliest Number

 

With four inches of brine, I find myself to be the last olive in the jar.  No longer looking appealing or seeming fresh.  All comparisons are gone, friends have deserted, leaving me to float in silence.  Party remnants scattered about the room, the sound of the vacuum, like taps at sunset.  I question my self-worth, for I would surely consume too much space, even in the far reaches of the refrigerator. But if that is to be my fate, it would seem only appropriate, when the door closes, for the light to go out.

 

You’ll not hear a peep out of me.