Dear Miss Zellweger,

Last night I had the most interesting dream about you, well, about you and I. We had met somewhere, taken a train together, and later taken together the views from some windowed place. I had admired you some long while as we sat -near, but not really together- in those low canvas slingback chairs, eyes narrowed against the seawind, seasalt, and seaview of some Connecticut beach.
I felt that we were friends, save for a certain formality; I thought of you as Renée, and yet never addressed you as such. I felt nervous around you; not for your star-power, but for your lips pursed against the wind, and the incredible loneliness wafting from your eyes, and for the want I had to say to you:
How beautiful you are! and why such sadness? But the words are never said, never spoken, and in morning I wake and rise, pedal away to the coffeeshop, letting cool predawn airs wash away the image of your fingers trailing in the sand, and my own little fears of finding out why.

But At Peace,

Me