Through years and age, the stories changed and so too did the name. Maturing of themes, refine of the tell, old ideas written again so that feeling and message told more true, Annie became Anna; and he thought of further change as in refine of retell he better saw who it was he imagined her to be.
He thought of her then, stories and name, as she rested across in room; eyes to a book, mind in a dream, conspiring in thought’s quiet creation.
Words on the wall showed framed above and told of her in scene.
She was beautiful in her rest, repose and ease and natural of being that made him wonder on the words, its story, and her dreams—all mind’s and being’s coalesce of then.
She felt his eyes as she always did, attunement of a way they spoke and shared without ever outward words.
“What?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered plain and true. “I was just admiring you and couldn’t help but stare.”
Smile bore that dimpled her cheeks as lips stretched in wide and spread, sight of teeth through parted lips.
“I was just wondering if you’d write,” he offered on.
“What made you think of that?”
“Just you: wondering what you’re reading, wondering your thoughts, wondering what it is that you’d create.”
Her smile stayed, flash of light and spirit of eyes that shone then covered back, hint of hidden spirit and beauty as her body under morning wear.
She felt his eyes and mind in that thought too.
“And why is that?” she asked.
“There is an energy about you when you go into yourself and raise your thoughts into Creation. I love to watch you when you write, to see you in your mind—to observe and see the way you are when your inner world is given life.”
Flash of light and spirit again, lean and roll of her body in rest from back to side in face and attentiveness to him, his words and share and open speak in quiet openness of room. Shirt fall of collar draped low in lie, show-hint of fair and summer-line that deepened his heart and left knot in his throat—aware and attuned.
Flash light of smile, glow of her eyes—spirit showing through—unhidden as before.
He’d write her again, refine of the tell, change of the name, until story and life were one and same.