kara franco

I won’t be able to tell you how much your new phone sucks.

I won’t be able to ask you to make the funny face of the girl that works at D’Lush at Fashion Valley Mall.

I’ll probably never meet the new guy you’re talking to, the one you’re so excited about. And I probably won’t be able to tell him you broke his iPod.

I won’t be able to convince you to eat red meat again, knowing your entire family gave it up, or ask if you want to grab dinner, knowing that you’ve already eaten.

I won’t see you whipping your hair at my first big gig in downtown or north park.  And you wouldn’t have stopped no matter how many times I would have told you that you’re scaring me.

I won’t be able to caress your smooth skin with my sandpaper feet or see your disgusted face when I tell you my shampoo won’t foam cause my hair is too greasy.  And when I finally cut my hair, I won’t see you rejoice.

I can’t order drinks with you from our favorite bartender, Mel.

I can’t cook for you. Today I’m making penne pasta with chicken, italian sausage, mushrooms, spinach, with garlic cream sauce.

I won’t hear you telling me how much you dislike my tight jeans.

I can’t beg you for massages anymore.

The only thing I can look forward to is seeing you again.  I hope you will be wearing your Manny Pacquiao halter-top.

You were too young Kara, I miss you and I love you always.