Post Script

I meant to tell you more,

 like how my aunt Lila  massaged Nixon and I wanted to kidnap your dog for an anti spa day. I read your business blog, every word to try to understand what you do so seemingly effortlessly. I never shared how I wanted to groom you like a mother primate. That I could never figure out when you where showing me professional face, so I rarely believed you, even though you never did me wrong. How my legs would shake on my way to see you, and when I seen you the shakes turned to butterflies in my belly. When I was alone I would do impersonations of your impersonations and giggle. I had seen the cash you were trying to give me and tried to run down the stairs so you wouldn't. How when I climbed into your sexy little car I felt I was stepping onto the closet of Narnia, because your world was magical and foreign to me. I wanted to tell you all about that time I was in New York and had the most delicious food and was taken shopping for the most delicate lingerie, but you were there. I want to reminisce the winter the saw mill went on strike and the family lived on peanut butter and potatoes but kept that to myself. I wanted to confess after I smeared lube on your eyeglasses when you were in the bathroom and drew hearts on the lens but didn't. I wanted to tell you how much I love you and  would never hurt any part of you, but that was only part right.