My Existence Is A Tipi Of Cards Made Entirely Of Two People

Canadian Tuxedo is on a sort of vacation. Jaybro is visiting him.
All of my friends are dead.

When the duo convenes, there is no need for old Whofleck; cast aside like so many Arch Deluxe wrappers; ignored like some asshole named Trevor. I am a fart on a short subway ride. "Whatever. Let it slide."
At least the feast of crippling loneliness is accompanied by a sad, unwelcome side dish: the realization that this void is the only one left in the hollow, gaping maw that can now barely be identified as my life. And for dessert? The suicidal memory of me introducing the two of them. Yes, they have become them now. Has it been so long since we were us? I am Athos in this dumbass metaphor, except Milady de Winter is my own desire to repeatedly shoot myself in the foot...and then to stick the bloody lump squarely into my own mouth.

A poem:

Gone are the days of sweet communion,
Of three in one.
Twisted figures now debate
Your fate; the amputee
Of one from three.
Union, bah!
Free your kin
And lascivious sin.
Godless traitors, jumping
Ships. The End.

Read. The. First. Letter. Of. Every. Line.