To the girl of her words, two letters divide us. And another four unite us. Those letters spell out to reveal the word, “lover”. Knowing this changes everything. It changes this letter. Let me begin again.

Beloved,

I know your name and I know you by your words. But you are still a stranger. You come from that defeating and misunderstood place of the North. Proud people. I have loved before one, no, two from your city. It did not bode well. And it did not end. Which is to say, there was no closure. One simply receded into the city, into the sounds of traffic and its obfuscating fumes. The other it seems, simply vanished into the thick fog of winter in August.

I don’t ask for permissions to tear people from their seams. It’s true. Most people do not know how detachable they are. Or how dispensable. Or how invincible. It’s all perspective. Or self-esteem. Or the lack of it. Either way, I don’t know. I write. I’m throwing out Scrabble pieces every day thinking that today is the day somebody will find the pieces and make a word. And that word will meet another word and then we will have a sentence. An expression. We will have something worth saying and hearing and giving away.

But the tiles make up the road to my door now and nobody writes. Letter tiles are good for building. You can make explanations. Formulate statements. Build sentences. Structure a proposition. It takes just 7 letters to say I love you. 7 letters. 7 tiles.
1+1+1+4+1+4+1+1 = 14 points. Look:

You could be my triple word score. You could be the reason to pick new tiles out of the bag. Your words could meet my words and go on play dates. Your words could meet mine and A N Y T H I N G could happen. Or we could have F I R E W O R K S or some T E A. Or tea.

You are a girl of her words. Some of those words could be mine too. There are entire worlds that exist beyond the four common letters that begin our name.