He was back again, right where she wanted him, stepping into her story to haunt her again. Witty and charming, and oh so smart, he laughed and he loved and he respected her heart. She set fingers to the screen to draw him forth, but the words denied her again, they did that, of course. She’d pour wine and warm to his kindness, then write to exhaustion, to maintain his presence. ©October 2019, February 2021 Christina Anne Hawthorne
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