I wonder if they will figure out,

The one piece to the puzzle,

That one folded page in the book,

Or the frame that is slightly out of place.

Or maybe their clueless,

Staring at it too deeply,

As Annabell Rose is long gone.

Their cluelessness amuses me,

I’m an open book ready to be read,

But they don’t read me.

They read everyone else,

As someone like me could never have done it.