Anna read the words, whole of story’s tell. After, she blushed through sun tan of summer face, warm-rose behind the sun-riched hue.
“I want to write art,” he told, “to write it as it seems to me—reality or dreams. I want to write of romance. I want to write of love; and too of lusts and want-desires that are color to our truths.”
Through suntan of his own, warmth-hue shone through; meek of total openness telling in his eyes.
“I want to write with heart—to share and give of mine away to who wishes too to live in the romance, love, and coloring hues that are our spirit truths.
Anna felt a warmth, a low of stir—touched in story and his words—wanting too to live the way.
Silent, but with tongue, she found the way to say.