If he did not write it, it would not leave—such was the way of spirit and mind. If he did not write it, thought would dwell, and he would feel ugly and shamed by its presence.
But when he wrote, instead of shame, he found catharsis of release. He wrote it as a romance—way he wished or it to be, of love and not lust alone—and by the act of recorded tell, the ugliness he felt in dwell transformed into a beauty.
He wrote in romance—spirit, place, bodies, and light—of wonder-awe and deep-love bond. And even as fiction, he felt the truth of passion spirit-union.
*****
Forearms, elbows, hands, and knees, Anna let her weight bear heavy; lowering of her body for bear on his strength, lifted and raised and forward driven; huffs of her breath in bearing of as she closed her eyes—feeling—twist of her torso, faint open of eyes, feel of the bed to side stomach and breasts in drive-sweep of body upon; arms hold to his hip, keeping him close; body heavening, more wholly upon, lifted and raised and moved of his strong; gold dawn-light through the window, prism-banded by the autumn trees in become of golden too as breath faltered, shudder of chill and heat—steadied lift in high, whole of her weight—as they attained in love together.
*****
Story written, he sat in the light in cast through window’s view; gleam of the wood glowing table where he wrote, light-draw to a candle still in burn framed in scatter of books he tried to read when mind drew story within.
Story written, he dreamed in the beauty, in the wonder-awe of spirit’s show left in show so that others, too, might read and believe.