25
Jan
17

Dear Felicity Jones,

*****

felicityjones-closeup-hairup_librapig-oct1983-5ft3in_mini-1

Oh, Felicity. Are you praying? Something about the force? Cuz when I see your smiling face, I say a little prayer for you. *True story.*

You little chocolate pixie. So petite. So subdued. Certainly not an *albatross.* Neither a *tempest* or *monster.* Occasionally a *fool,* perhaps.

From the moment I saw you talking with Charlie Rose, I was enchanted…*like crazy* (sans *hysteria*). A little on the short side (per my interest), but brimming with graceful beauty. Why, even your name is like a species of social butterfly. Felicity Jones = Delicate Engine.

If you were any smaller, you might be *invisible.* But, I see you with that glimmer of Amy Adams spunk. Your voice is like a warm breeze that sweeps up underneath me and tickles the backs of my ears. Your smile is just as disarming.

You’re a silent night with every inkling of ambition stirring beneath the surface, rarely surfacing with a sound. There could be a veritable *inferno* in you, and who would know? You slip in and out of a room like a silk robe. You’re that girl in my elementary or high school class who appears at the back of the crowd, smiles bashfully when she’s noticed and then vanishes when someone like me gets the nerve to approach.

[Maybe that’s why your performances on SNL seemed so insignificant. The skits lacked humor, and you were dwarfed by the taller, louder ladies. Sadly, it was one of the most disappointing productions in which to find you partaking.]

If my sources are correct, you were born a Libra water piglet. [I have to question these sources, lately.] We go together like a garden and koi pond; like dew drops on rose petals. At least, that’s how I imagine it. But, again, if sources are correct, our pairing would not be ideal. It might get a little rough, cause a few bruises, lack a little passion, leave a few infuriating questions. Would there be *cheerful weather for the wedding?* I don’t know. Still, it’s that face of yours that keeps pulling me back. That force. *Sigh.* And, *breathe in.*

So, without the *theory of everything,* I leave these words to be carried by the wind. May they reach you and tickle your fancy. And, if the wind could be so kind, perhaps you will send a nice response, one that suits your graceful charm.

Sincerely,
Writingbolt, a stem of bamboo looking for a nice pond to nurse his roots

felicityjones-snazysuit-hairdown_worstwitch_nbc-tjf-s02e27-2014-1

 

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