Not another Memoir

hey y'all. i’m writing again.

but not like before. not from the dark place. not the gasping, cracked-open stuff. not the girl gripping the edge of the bathtub crying into old tea leaves.this one’s different.

this one has toast in it.burnt, mostly.and kisses.the slow kind. the forehead kind. the “i picked up the good olive oil because i knew you were out” kind.

it’s called Burnt Toast and Other Kisses.

and yeah, it’s a love story.but not the Hollywood kind. this one has laundry. and real fights. and someone learning how to say sorry with their hands and not just their mouth.

i’m writing it from the floor. and the bed. and the front porch when the wind feels just right.i’m writing it in the quiet after he says “i’m not going anywhere” and i believe him.i’m writing it because softness showed up at my door and took its shoes off before coming inside.

this book is a mosaic of mornings.

it’s what happens after the breakdown. after the big no. after the storm passes and you’re left holding your own hand in a sunlit kitchen.

it’s not perfect. it’s real.and real, as it turns out, is better.

so yeah.

Burnt Toast and Other Kisses is coming.

and for once, i’m not bleeding for the story.

i’m just living it.

with jelly on my fingers and love in my teeth,

carolina