Your name is funny, fun to roll off my tongue. It feels foreign, tastes sweet and strong.

I�d like to write you letters. This, I know, sounds crazy.

But I could see myself writing letters to you, reading letters from you. If we end up being friends, and you go off to collage- especially if you get the money and make it to New York- I�d like us to write letters.

I�m talking real letters. Not just those stiff, computer-and-stationary ones, full of form and stuffy manners. No, real letters- handwritten, lined paper, falling apart at the folds because they�ve been over-read. That�s what I want to write.

We would whisper secrets through that ink. Across those miles. On something so gripping and personal and romantic that we�ll get ourselves addicted to it, to writing to one another, to turning on the lights besides our beds, wrapping ourselves up in blanket cocoons, tearing open envelopes, pouring over one another�s words with reckless abandon, only to reach the sign-off, pausing for a moment, then re-reading, slowly, carefully.

I don�t know what it is about you, maybe your exotic nature� Maybe it�s the way you can hold your face in a way that made me peg you as arrogant, and then surprise me in your humility� Maybe that you�ve got these big, crazy dreams, and I�ve always been attracted to big crazy dreams� Maybe just the fact that we were both just stuck with no one to talk to, and somehow, you talked to me. Maybe because we�re stupid crazy kids with this dream about music and performing and making it big.

I don�t know if you�re liberal, though I suspect you are.
I don�t know your faith, but that�s something I can adapt too.
I do know that you�re a basketball player, and you don�t even play football, you run� which is something that should scare me off.
I do know that you live an hour and a half away.
And I know that you must be supremely talented.

I don�t know that I like you.

But I do know that something woke up in me yesterday, this soft romanticism.

And I wonder what that means.