To the last child.

Sometimes, I check up on you, to see how you're doing. And, though you're fixated on tits and ass and all that come between and below, the need for a someone and not a something can be seen through the cracks of desperation. I want to tell you how important you were to me in me becoming me, but I don't want you to imagine me more naked than I was last time I was in your arms while I tell you this.

We weren't a public thing, though I told while you never took my hand. I want to tell you that I wanted more and, yet, I left only missing something rather than someone. Maybe it's not fair of me to say. Maybe you should stop having affairs and start having and holding. I have. It's nice.

Still, this isn't about me, as it usually is. If I could, I would bow to you. Tip my bowler hat. And gently smile a knowing smile, knowing that I know nothing. At least, not as much as you. Not nearly.