Annabelle
Standing in the parking lot,
waiting for the others to show,
stamping my feet to keep warm,
I peek into a parked car
and see a couple twisting
toward each other.
Suddenly, his face is on top of hers
and he is eating her lips, not stopping
for air, as if they’re kissing
for the last time ever.
I touch the note in my coat pocket,
its corners soft from my fingers
bending, creasing and smoothing
down the paper while I try to figure out
who popped it in there.
I can see the others coming,
placards balanced
on their shoulders,
but all I can wonder
is who actually feels
that way about me
and how can I just be
myself, knowing
somebody does?