Whispered gasp burning where touch not her own sparked. She was too old to be new, impossible by every measure. She —awaking, disbelieving— was unaware love existed. Well, not real love, not this love, not the kind that keeps you up at night. A moan, a sigh, an impossible love, one she was discovering now. ©September 2021 Christina Anne Hawthorne
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Christina Anne Hawthorne 