From the way that people have always talked about your heart being broken, it sort of seemed to be a one-time thing. Mine seemed to break all the time.
The opening notes of a song began, some plucking of guitar strings. I knew the melody. It was Maroon 5’s “She Will Be Loved.” As pop songs went, it was pretty damn good, a bit of a favorite of mine.
He barred his forearm across Marco's brawny chest and shoved him against the stone door. "She may not be mine, but I am still hers.
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomèd mine— Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade
Then take it as it is. It’s a gift. How or why is irrelevant, but if we don’t enjoy it, we are ungrateful,” he said and brought his face very close to mine. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the moonlight, mesmerizing me.
and then I couldn't wait anymore, and my hand was on the back of her head, and then her lips on mine, the cold air gone and replaced with the warmth of her mouth, soft and sweet and hash-brown-tastic
I don't have the body for this," I quipped, lifting my chin to a voluptous woman nearby who shook her hips zealously to the beat. "No curves." Jev's eyes held mine. "Are you asking my opinion?
I don't have a car." His eyes sliced into mine. "I walked here," I explained. "I'm on foot." "Angel," he said in a way that sounded like he sincerely hoped I was joking.
We don't take orders from you, Sergeant." Quain said. "Your man tried to assassinate-" "He isn't mine. man has eyes that change color with the seasons.
None of them seemed to mind sliding around in the faeces and choking in the smoke. They were determined not to miss the opportunity of watching a foreigner make a fool of himself.
Most journeys have a clear beginning, but on some the ending is less well-defined. The question is, at what point do you bite your lip and head for home?
[T]hrough bitter experience I have learned that it is best to promise little and then to reward hard work with generosity.
He follows me down, catching his weight on either side of my head so he can leer his face into mine, coiling muscles and immobility at me, “I want you to lay into me. Fight me.
Ronan taught me that children do not exist to honor their parents; their parents exist to honor them. [...] Ronan was mine but he never belonged to me. This is not an issue of ownership. A child is not a couch.
I am beginning to remember what it means to need things. Laughter. Companionship. Love. " He leant forward and pressed his forehead to mine. "And I need you, Merit.
Mine was a patchwork God, sewn together from bits of rag and ribbon, Eastern and Western, pagan and Hebrew, everything but the kitchen sink and Jesus.
Your hand fits in mine Like it's made just for me But bear this in mind It was meant to be And I'm joining up the dots with the freckles on your cheeks And it all makes sense to me
Even though I believe birthday parties should be given, not taken, I wish someone would take all of mine and hide them on the other side of eternity.
Do I love you? My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.
Is that your cheap way of telling me you want to kiss me?” He looks into my eyes, his dark gaze capturing mine. “ , I always want to kiss you.
Come buy from me what you could rent elsewhere. Like a Like button or a wiggly wrench—or donuts that yesterday would have been free at the store next to mine.
