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“I love you,” he says again, “and no other man will ever say those words and mean them the way I do.”
― Ricochet
― Ricochet
“I was waiting for the sun to chase me,” he breathes, drawing me to his chest. In one swift movement, my lips are on his. The world is spinning. He kisses me like this is the moment he’s envisioned all his life. Like this is heaven on Earth.
For me, it is. A blissful moment before something that could be the end. The rush before the fear. He whispers, “I fucking love you.”
I smile, my lips tingling. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I love you more than chocolate cake.”
― Hothouse Flower
For me, it is. A blissful moment before something that could be the end. The rush before the fear. He whispers, “I fucking love you.”
I smile, my lips tingling. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I love you more than chocolate cake.”
― Hothouse Flower
“Beginnings are the hardest because they’re the parts that pull people in, that make them want the ends. And endings are the most painful, the parts that can leave you bleeding out.”
― Hothouse Flower
― Hothouse Flower
“I would die for you. But I won't live for you.”
― The Perks of Being a Wallflower
― The Perks of Being a Wallflower
“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts...
There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end,— [Sings.]
“For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Thought and afflictions, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.
Song. And will a not come again? And will a not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, Flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ’a’ mercy on his soul.”
―
There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end,— [Sings.]
“For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Thought and afflictions, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.
Song. And will a not come again? And will a not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, Flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ’a’ mercy on his soul.”
―
YA Addicted Book Club
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— last activity 9 hours, 28 min ago
This club is for anyone who loves YA books of all different genres. Be yourself and discuss your favorite books with us. We will have read a-longs and ...more
۶isilৎ’s 2024 Year in Books
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