The desert sky died of flame, orange and yellow fire tempered and from which told the stars, the Milky Way upon its side, pale-glowed road and trail across time and the heavens.
They watched sky die. They watched sky cool. The watched The Way appear. After, they turned in.
Adobe home in desert empty, they rested by hearth-bound fire; wood of juniper and pinyon pine carried down from mountainsides, fast-burning in its way, rich in incense of the room.
He read in a chair and she on floor, both near to naked in fire’s warmth.
He gazed on her, stomach to floor, in lied repose; light’s amber flicker upon fair skin, shadow-cast of freckles, inverse stars, over sky of body’s white.
Reading, she was in a world. Witnessing, he saved away appearance and scene to write into another.
Such is the way of writers’ minds. Visions and Dreams becoming truth in write and giving of the Word. Worlds and heavens made—on small and lesser scale—by man’s imitation of God as Saint John wrote in beginning of his Testament.
From a Vanity Fair purchased on drive of made escape, he read of a writer recent deceased and world’s learning of his muse. A mostly nobody who, by her—inspired and awakened—he became a someone, more than he ever imagined to be. He read their story: where they met, where it was that she appeared in guise and open sight throughout the fictions that he dreamed.
Strange the way it happens: a someone out of nowhere, curiosity becoming seek from which absurd and unbelievable, but true: new life and worlds appear, fates forever changed.
He read the article full to end, pausing for times throughout to admire and gaze furthermore on her in reposed lie; the fall of her hair over neck and back, its fan between her blades, and further over shoulder tops and draped cover of breasts he could not see but knew so well to be for all the times he’d viewed, adored, written to mind and page. He studied and wrote the long of her body, her narrow of waist and goddess hips’ return of wide, feminine fill of upturned curve and shape, sacral dimples just above that he loved to press his thumbs into when holding from behind, then into length of long, fine legs into feet and outstretched toes, tips white painted, pointing to him then.
Strange the way it happens, of curiosity’s intrigue—new lives and worlds revealed—no ones becoming someones eternalized by the Word.
Magic of the muse.
He was still a no one. Maybe he would always be. Even so, he wrote and shared his worlds that, together, they believed.
Article read, he returned to a quote from book that shone near-mirror to line of private letter side-to-side:
“She was naked under her blanket. It fell in a dark pool about her feet. In which he knelt, rain dripping from her nipples, runneling thinly on her pale belly. With his ear to her womb…he could hear the hiss of meteorites through the blind stellar depths. She moaned and stood on tiptoe, her hands holding his head to her.”
No blanket, no rain, incense and light of flame; still, he felt the Word.
Her left leg bent at knee, foot’s rise and white-painted toes flashing in the light, a change to her body’s skin as if aware to longing, strong and sudden from a line. Foot stayed high, slow signing and circling in the light.
He laid aside his vanity and met her as she was, his hand beneath, her body’s roll from stomach onto back.
Inspired and alive, they lived true the written last.