Whether it be the fingertips on one’s hand,

The tongue and it’s infinite topography,

Or the ring of colour encircling each pupil,

No two are ever quite the same,

Each crafted by some divine hand,

To be the only of its kind.

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In our solitude there is loneliness,

But in our collective there is a loneliness too,

An inkling of knowledge that whispers in our ear,

That we are a deviation from our neighbour.

But this loneliness is not the worse of our experience,

For it is in our differences that we bare some resemblance,

Each so unlike each other,

That in this novelty of uniqueness,

We share in the sameness of that lonely.