I want you to know me without ever hearing my name.

(it could happen you know.)

I want each of you to know I will always choose people over sleep, chocolate over vanilla, and honestly any road before treadmills.  I want you to believe me when I say that not-quite-18 doesn't mean I'm not ready for the East Coast and you can't wear high tops with shorts. Hear me when I say that I could make you a list of every swear word I've ever said and boy I've ever kissed but you can't convince me that open eyes see more than open hands. I know mountains are good for you and some memories look better on paper and words are for making people move.

And let me just say, 

Paris is for me.

And it didn't matter from which mouth they spilled, so long as the strung-together sentences glistened when they hit the air.

She watched 17 fade along with the hands that had shaped it, but she didn't mind all that much either.

Backyard volleyball courts and fushia nail polish and jeep rides have been stamped into the pages, but 18 calls for a new book and a new pen and a slightly new hand to pull it along. 

Cryptic poems and faded songs began to lose their pull, but U2 never will and neither will sunday socials or friendly wars that leave us wanting more.

(mama said to always leave them wanting more)

So here's to 17 and the last few weeks of it I've got. She's done me well, but 18's words will be even brighter.