If you ask me to kiss you, I will,” he says. His fingers stroke the inside of my wrists, and I burst into flames. “Kiss me,” I say. He does.
Even the water, grey and listless as it tossed against the harbour wall, seemed fixed in time; as if peering hard enough into its depths would reveal the tips of Peter’s fingers, himself still swaying underwater, cradled in the sea’s mouth.
The soul is an irrational, indivisible equation that perfectly expresses one thing: you. The soul would be no good to the devil if it could be destroyed. And it is not lost when placed in Satan's care, as is so often said. He always know exactly how ...
Sometimes things just slip past you, into your hands and out through your fingers. In my half-in/half-out state I began to wonder if that could happen to people, too.
People say that time slips through our fingers like sand. What they don't acknowledge is that some of the sand sticks to the skin. These are the memories that will remain, memories of the time when there was still time left.
That’s what it feels like when you touch me. Like millions of tiny universes being born and then dying in the space between your finger and my skin. Sometimes I forget.
What if just you and I hung out, like last summer?" Nick sat up and began twirling a lock of my wet hair around his finger. "Josh never needs to know.
I am so stupid, so easily fooled. It's really almost funny. If I could lift a finger I would gladly kill myself.
How the things that hold us are only as strong as the faith we have in them-you go on the bridge because you trust it will not fall the fingers will clasp because we trust them to.
Socrates held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. "God gave me these hands to change the world, one child at a time.
Patti told me that to truly love someone ,you must hold them in a open hand.That was how I needed to love Kai. It was necessary to uncurl my fingers and let him go
You two are children almost grown. Your hearts have not hardened to the realities of the world. Your dreams have not fallen through your fingers. You still know hope.
I have to absorb the new season like sunlight, letting it turn my winter skin pink and then brown. I must stuff myself with lore and statistics until my fingers ooze balm.
I stared up at the sky and raised my middle finger, just in case God was watching. I don't like being spied on.
Love is like 9.75 plus .25. That’s 10, for all of you people trying to add fractions on your fingers.
Wriggling around, two fingers deep in my back end like some teenage boy unsure what he should be tugging at inside his girlfriend’s nether region I wrestled a fifty free.
It had a sort of a head on it, like a mushroom, and its color was reddish purple. It looked blunt and stupid, compared, say, to fingers and toes with their intelligent expressiveness, or even to an elbow or a knee.
As for the piano, the faster her fingers flew over it, the more he marveled. She struck the keys with aplomb and ran from one end of the keyboard to the other without a stop.
Leo leaned forward and met her soft lips. Their first underwater kiss created bubbles that floated lazily to the surface. Audrey ran her fingers through his coarse hair, and they lingered until his lungs were bursting.
Each of you must decide where you stand. All we ask is that you refuse to kneel. You are the people. You have the power. Open your eyes. Open your minds. Then close the fingers on your hand.
Snatching my hand in the death grip of his fingers, he pulls me off the wall to line his chest, closing his body around me in a muscular cage which smells of leather and soap.
