You were dainty but delicious. You poked holes in my pockets but I'm happy to trade hard work for experiences these days.
Dear Mango Margarita,
I still think you're more exciting to say than dripping on my tongue. But you're frozen enough to make me pretend I'm five again.
The gray-haired woman next to me, who thought I was ballsy for using the men's room during intermission, said it best: So. Much. Heart.
A Masters Degree makes me no more equip to support my sadness.
Dear Spring Skirts,
You're good for twirling and weekend picnics.
Weekdays are brought to me by the letters Y-O-U.
Dear Cinnamon Tea,
Don't worry. As the days warm, I will still boil your water, wait impatiently for you to cool, and hide you away behind the laugh lines in my throat.
Dear Prom Date,
We're the greatest love story ever told.
Dear Renaissance Faire,
The stones said it best.
Dear Mini-Ice Cream Cones,
You're a tiny indiscretion. Everything tastes better in cones.
Dear Deb Talan,
I trust no one when I’m afraid, either. But we are Lucky Girls.
You're close. You mean the end of such much and the beginning of so much more.
Dear 6 Months,
You're not much in the scope of forever...but you've been everything since the first day the glass broke and the dreidel spun, and the bakery door swung open.
Dear Rainy Blooms,
Proof that things are still lovely, even when they're a little damp. The flowers (still) grow.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.