Whispers At Moonrise Quotes

Have you been smoking something? Seriously, I think you're a werewolf. This new snarky attitude is a dead giveaway."
"And vampires aren't snarky?" Kylie rolled her eyes.
"No, we're pissy. Snarky and pissy are two totally different things. ~ C.C. Hunter

Wait!" I called. Too loud. All around me, the trees seemed to be listening, injured at hearing such a loud voice when they had been used to whispers and silence. ~ Hollow Ryan

My Father Comes Home From Work"



My father comes home from work

sweating through layers of bleached cotton t-shirts

sweating through his wool plaid shirt.


He kisses my mother

starching our school dresses

at the ironing board,


swings his metal lunchbox

onto the formica kitchen table

rattling the remnants

of the lunch she packed

that morning before daylight:


crumbs of baloney sandwiches,

empty metal thermos of coffee,

cores of hard red apples

that fueled his body through

the packing and unpacking of sides

of beef into the walk-in refrigerators

at James Allen and Sons Meat Packers.


He is twenty-six.

Duty propels him each day

through the dark to Butcher Town

where steers walk streets

from pen to slaughterhouse.


He whispers Jesus Christ

to no one in particular.

We hear him-- me,

my sister Linda, my baby brother Willy,

and Mercedes la cubana's daughter

who my mother babysits.

When he comes home

we have to be quiet.


He comes into the dark living room.

Dick Clark's American Bandstand

lights my father's face

white and unlined

like a movie star's.
Barbara Brinson Curiel

I just want a soft creature with shiny eyes to lay with in the dark, the glint of her eyes reflected back at mine, a last few whispers, a kiss goodnight, to calm me down but most of all … to make me feel alive when morning shines. ~ John Zelazny

As it ferments, kraut whispers alchemical secrets. In two days, it will smell as agreeable as an old pillow still warm from night's use. In five days it will smell like a horse run to foam. The odor will then lessen as the vegetable begins its tart transformation. It will be good to eat in two weeks, but at five weeks it will reach the zenith of its power, its taste a violin bow drawn across the tongue. After six weeks it will err slowly toward slime. Like hams and men, it gets better with age only to a point. ~ Eli Brown

Fine. But remember, little rabbit, not a word to anyone." He moved close enough that the dark heat of him lapped against her in a quiet threat that made her glad for the blade. "I'm not a nice man when I'm angry."
She held her position, a ragged attempt to erase the humiliation of the panic attack. "I'm fairly certain you're not a nice man at all."
His answer was a slow smile that whispered of silk sheets, erotic whispers, and sweat-damp skin. The unhidden intent of it had her heart slamming hard against her ribs. "No" she said. Voice raw.
"A challenge." He wasn't touching her and yet she felt caressed by a thousand ropes of fur, soft and lush and unmistakably sexual. "I accept ~ Nalini Singh

Each and every one of you is a sovereign human being with free will granted to you by the Maker. But he didn't leave you to wander in this life without guidance. He whispers truth to you in the face of every moral dilemma you encounter. At every turn, with every choice, you have only to listen to your conscience to know the right and just course. ~ David A. Wells

Whatever game you're playing, you're going to lose," he whispers. "And I'll be right there to rub your nose in it when it happens."
"Great. Well, at least I have something to look forward to." I cross my arms. "Now why don't you go parade your lack of dignity somewhere else? ~ Rachel Morgan

She did not know how long she fell with them.
But then there was a rushing, roaring below - a frozen river. Whispers and foggy light were rising to meet them. No, not rising - this was the bottom.
An end to the abyss. And an end to her, perhaps, at last.
She didn't know if the Valg princes' hissing was from anger or pleasure as they slammed into that frozen river at the bottom of her soul. ~ Sarah J. Maas

There are two special moments in a day I love the most
The moment Before I wake up, the feeling of existment and happinesse like a little kid, the rush of adrenaline into my body the beating of my heart so fast, and the whisper of my heart feeling your arms upon my chest whispers " is she real or are we still dreaming"

The end of the day
I crave you like an addict to drugs
Missing your beautiful face,
Missing the way you smile,
Missing the way you look at me
Missing hearing your voice
Missing the way you smell
Missing your soft skin
Missing how your body shake when my lips thouch your skin ~ Bilal

I wonder ... if people think of suicidal ideation as thoughts that are obviously sinister. If they assume the voice comes in a snake hiss or a demon's warped bass. Does it occur to them that it could sound like the friend who nudges you at a bad, crowded party and whispers, conspiratorially, "Hey, lets get out of here". Do [they] consider how well you have to know yourself to see that moment for what it is and whisper back, "You are not my real friend". ~ Emery Lord

He spoke on rising toes, on rolling ankles, he spoke with forward tilt, with lifted shoulders, with forefinger pointing and fist punching. He did verbal pirouettes, he did elongated sentences, he let clauses gather at the river and foam until they found spittle release. He spoke hushed, he spoke his big points in whispers, then drove them in with urgent balletic waves of arm and extended eyebrow as he said the same thing again only louder. He was not then a guns and bombs nationalist. He was the more dangerous kind. He was a poems and stories one. ~ Niall Williams

When I write this in bed, I can almost hear the echo of the wind over the sand, or the groans of wooden panels around me. I can almost smell the dustiness of the camel, taste the bitterness of saltbush. And when I dream, your warm hands cover my shoulders. Your whispers carry stories and sound like the rustle of spinifex. I still wear that ring, you know ... at night, when no one is watching. ~ Lucy Christopher

Nobody whispers it in your ear. It is like something you memorized once and forgot. Now it comes back and rips away your breath. You find and finger a phrase at a time; you lay it down cautiously, as if with tongs, and wait suspended until the next one finds you: Ah yes, then this; and yes, praise be, then this. ~ Annie Dillard

You are a light. You are the light. Never let anyone - any person or any force - dampen, dim or diminish your light. Study the path of others to make your way easier and more abundant. Lean toward the whispers of your own heart, discover the universal truth, and follow its dictates. […] Release the need to hate, to harbor division, and the enticement of revenge. Release all bitterness. Hold only love, only peace in your heart, knowing that the battle of good to overcome evil is already won. Choose confrontation wisely, but when it is your time don't be afraid to stand up, speak up, and speak out against injustice. And if you follow your truth down the road to peace and the affirmation of love, if you shine like a beacon for all to see, then the poetry of all the great dreamers and philosophers is yours to manifest in a nation, a world community, and a Beloved Community that is finally at peace with itself. ~ John Lewis

The people who had turned their heads turned them again as the service proceeded; and at last observing her they whispered to each other. She knew what their whispers were about, grew sick at heart, and felt that she could come to church no more. ~ Thomas Hardy

Don't call me an idiot," I hiss, smiling apologetically at the old couple who are now dividing their attention between us and the carol singers. "I can do what I want and if I want to walk naked through London at three in the morning then I'm going to do it and it's got nothing to do with you."
His lips twitch and I know that he's trying not to smile. "Nell, I will never complain if you want to walk around naked, but you've got to know that I'm going to be following you with your coat for when you get cold."
"Why?" I ask in exasperation. "Why are you so bothered?"
"I don't know," he whispers. "I don't know why, but I am. ~ Lily Morton

Will glanced over at Cordelia and smiled. "We could ask for no lovelier girl to be his wife."
Alastair looked as if he wished to edge away. Cordelia didn't blame him. "Thank you, Mr. Herondale," she said. "I hope to live up to your expectations."
Tessa looked surprised. "Why would you ever worry about that?"
"Cordelia worries," Alastair said unexpectedly, "because of the idiots who mutter about our father, and our family. She should not let them bother her."
Tessa laid a gentle hand on Cordelia's shoulder. "The cruel will always spread rumors," she said. "And others who take pleasure in that cruelty will believe them and spread them. But I believe that in the end, truth wins out. Besides," she added with a smile, "the most interesting women are always the most whispered about. ~ Cassandra Clare

Before being born, his mother explained, babies go to school. Not a school like Boris's, but a different kind of school, where all the teachers are angels. The angels teach each baby the entire Torah, along with all of the secrets of the universe. Then, just before each baby is born, an angel puts its finger right below the baby's nose - here she paused to put her finger across his lips (could he see the blood under her skin, or did he only imagine it?) - and whispers to the child: Shh - don't tell. And then the baby forgets. "Why does he have to forget?" Boris had asked, moving his lips beneath her finger. He didn't want to know, not really. But his mother's back had stiffened, and he could feel that she might get up at any moment, put out the light, walk away, disappear. She pulled her hand away from his face, resting it on her own stomach. "So that for the rest of his life," she said, "he will always have to pay attention to the world, and to everything that happens in it, to try to remember all the things he's forgotten. ~ Dara Horn

Oh my gosh, he smells good, like some exotic but comforting spice, nutmeg or cardamom. Slowly Damian lowers his head to mine and I think my chest might explode, my heart is tap-dancing so quickly.
He's going to kiss me.
I've imagined this and now it's really happening, I am like a block of wood. I can't move. I can't breathe. I close my eyes as the lightest feather of a breath , then lips, brushing over my lips. His breath is sweet and the taste of coffee barely lingers in his mouth. I feel as though my whole body has turned to liquid, into a river of millions of droplets, rushing apart and then back together.
"You have the softest lips," he whispers as he pulls back to look at me.
"So do you," I murmur. Oh, was that a stupid thing to say? I turn my face into his jacket and breathe in his scent. ~ Lisa Ann Sandell

I love you," she whispers.
"It's only a week," I tell her, but I loathe this separation as much as she does.
Echo looks at me with those pleading green eyes. I twine my fingers into her curls. The first taste of her lips is sweet. The second makes me forget there's a bus terminal full of people. The third causes me to lift her feet off the ground and deepen our kiss.
"Noah," she whispers in reprimand as she breaks away. "We're causing a scene."
"Not my problem." But I lower her to the ground anyhow. "Besides, it wasn't my fault. You're the one looking at me with take-me-to-bed eyes, and I felt you kissing me back. Once again, you're the one getting us into trouble."
Echo grins. "You are so impossible."
"Damn straight, baby. ~ Katie McGarry

Go to dinner with me?" His voice whispers against my ear. I start to shake my head when his fingertip lightly traces the birdcage tattoo on my arm. My eyes shut at the sensation. His touch. "I dream about you almost every night." Join the club, buddy, I want to tell him. I dream about me every night, too ... well, until I met him. Now I dream too damn much about him. "Just one date and I will leave you alone if you never want to see me again. Deal?" I open my eyes to gaze into his. There are too many things happening at once. Everything within me says to tell him no. Nothing good can come of this. I know what I have to tell him. "Dinner, not a date," I say, looking him square in the eyes. Holy hell! What did you just do, Keller? Really? Seriously? He grins, not hiding his happiness at my words. I step away, allowing him time to button his shirt up. "Dinner then dessert, and, Keller, it will definitely be a date," he says, ~ Nicole Reed

My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music. ~ Rabindranath Tagore

If I'd known he was going to die, my last words to him would have meant something. They certainly wouldn't have been my out-of-tune attempt at singing that old Grateful Dead song he loved so much. No, I would have told him how I felt about him, straight out. No more flirting, wild-eyed whispers in the grass outside. I would have looked at him harder to ensure his image was permanently seared in my mind. I'd have asked him a million more things so I could remember what mattered before I got in the car on the way home from Custard's. Because after, nothing mattered. ~ Sarah Ockler

Hundreds of eyes watched him like vultures circling a wounded dog, but they didn't matter. Only one pair of eyes mattered to Grey at that moment.
It only made sense that he should be the only one in the room not wearing a mask. He had hidden himself for so long, that it felt somehow cleansing to put himself on such blatant display. He deserved this blatant attention. And on some level, he needed it.
Head high, he walked through the ballroom, the crowd parting for him. They didn't draw back so much that he couldn't hear their whispers.
"The nerve!"
"Did you see the scar?"
"Always did know how to make an entrance."
"He's so handsome!"
Grey stopped listening. It didn't matter what they said. All that mattered was finding Rose, and somehow he knew that she would be waiting at the end, letting him make this walk alone as he needed to do. ~ Kathryn Smith

How is she already asleep?" Sully whispers. "At home she stays up until like two a.m."

"She probably was tired," Church whispers back.

"What, from climbing a hill?"

Church doesn't respond. They get into their sleeping bags and whisper for half an hour about the outdoor soccer season about to start. I hadn't even realized the indoor season was over - Mom and Dad just told me when I needed to take them to practice or pick them up. I didn't know how they'd done. Were there any tournaments? Trophies?

After a long stretch of silence, Sully says, "So did you really try out for the spring musical?"

Church doesn't respond for a second. "Yes. Why?"

"Just wondering. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you would have made it about Macy Garrison."

"It - it's not?"

"No."

"Oh. But you're not going to try out forchoir?"

"Maybe."

"Why?" Just the smallest bit of mocking enters Sully's tone.

"Because I like it," Church snaps back. "We don't have to do all the same things. Try out for mathletes or something. You like math. You'd be good at it."

"Mathletes is for nerds."

"Sull, there's something you should know."

"Don't say it."

"You are a nerd."

"I'm not a nerd. Eliza's a nerd."

"Actually, I think Eliza's a geek. I've seen her grades. Compared to us, she's horrible at school."

"Yo ~ Francesca Zappia

A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to fear. ~ Marcus Tullius Cicero

Mountains at Night
The lake has died down,
The reed, black in its sleep,
Whispers in a dream.
Expanding immensely into the countryside,
The mountains loom, outspread.
They are not resting.
They breathe deeply, and hold themselves,
Pressed tightly, to one another.
Deeply breathing,
Laden with mute forces,
Caught in a wasting passion. ~ Hermann Hesse

You're at my table," Cormac whispers in my ear.
"My dream come true," I reply.
"I'm sorry?" he says in a voice that dares me to repeat myself.
"I said, lead the way. ~ Gennifer Albin

There were a few spots on every child that only a mother knows or cares about. One is the small indentation at the base of their neck where you press your nose when they're babies and you want to wrap yourself in their smell. Another is the tiny crease behind their ear, where you plant whispers like "I love you" or "Sleep tight" as they drift off at night, bum in the air and arms akimbo. These are the spots a mother is immediately drawn to whenever her child is sick, after she presses her face against his to feel for a fever, silently praying it's just a cold. ~ Holly Kennedy

I sit alone in a dead world. The wind blows hot and dry, and the dust gathers like particles of memory waiting to be swept away. I pray for forgetfulness, yet my memory remains strong, as does the outstretched arm of the oppressive air. It seems as if the wind has been there since the beginning of the nightmare. Sometimes loud and harsh, a thousand sharp needles scratching at my reddened skin. Sometimes a whisper, a curious sigh in the black of night, of words more frightening than pain. I know now the wind has been speaking to me. Only I couldn't understand because I was too scared. I am scared now as I write these words. Still, there is nothing else to do. ~ Christopher Pike

In a cage of wire-ribs
The size of a man's head, the macaw bristles in a staring
Combustion, suffers the stoking devils of his eyes.
In the old lady's parlour, where an aspidistra succumbs
To the musk of faded velvet, he hangs in clear flames,
Like a torturer's iron instrument preparing
With dense slow shudderings of greens, yellows, blues,
Crimsoning into the barbs:

Or like the smouldering head that hung
In Killdevil's brass kitchen, in irons, who had been
Volcano swearing to vomit the world away in black ash,
And would, one day; or a fugitive aristocrat
From some thunderous mythological hierarchy, caught
By a little boy with a crust and a bent pin,
Or snare of horsehair set for a song-thrush,
And put in a cage to sing.

The old lady who feeds him seeds
Has a grand-daughter. The girl calls him 'Poor Polly', pokes fun.
'Jolly Mop.' But lies under every full moon,
The spun glass of her body bared and so gleam-still
Her brimming eyes do not tremble or spill
The dream where the warrior comes, lightning and iron,
Smashing and burning and rending towards her loin:
Deep into her pillow her silence pleads.

All day he stares at his furnace
With eyes red-raw, but when she comes they close.
'Polly. Pretty Poll', she cajoles, and rocks him gently.
She caresses, whispers kisses. The blue lids stay shut.
She strikes the cage in a t ~ Ted Hughes

I want you to make love to me, Eros," he whispers in the darkness of the bedroom. "Now. Tomorrow. Always."

I kiss the tip of my finger and place it over his lips to stop him from saying more. I can't listen to him use words like always, or even tomorrow. As bad as I ache at the thought of watching him walk away from me, I know there is no tomorrow for the two of us, regardless of what happens with him and Kathleen.

"Ssh. Let's just enjoy tonight, okay? ~ Candi Kay

Why are you looking at me? His eyes search mine for several long seconds before he holds contact and whispers, Because I like your face. ~ Mia Sheridan

Prison Moon

Four a.m. work duty and I begin
my solitary trudge from outer compound
to main building. A shivering guard,
chilled in his lonely outpost, strip searches
me until content that my inconsequential nudity.
poses no threat and then whispers
the secret code that allows me admittance
into the open quarter-mile walkway.

I chuff my way into another day
as ice glints on the razor wire
and the rifles note my numbed passage,
silent but for my huffs and scuffle
on the cracked, slippery sidewalk
A new moon, veiled in wispy fog
and beringed in glory, hangs over the prison,
its gaudy glow taunting the halogen spotlights.

The moon's creamy pull upsets
some liquid equilibrium within me
and like tides, wolves and all manner
of madmen, I surrender disturbed by the certainty that under
the bony luminescence of a grinning moon
The lunar deliriums grip me
and I howl--once, then again, and
surely somewhere an unbound sleeper stirs,
penitence is dying a giddy death.

I shake myself sane
and as the echoes hang
in the frigid air I explain
to the wild-eyed guard that convicts,
like all animals under the leash,
must bay at the beauty beyond them. ~ Jorge Antonio Renaud

Vaughn is talking about the heat, and his voice is so excited that it breaks into whispers at times. He loves his madness the way a bird loves the sky. ~ Lauren DeStefano

[T]hose who have not been enclosed in the walls of prison without cause or provocation, can have but little idea how sweet the voice of a friend is; one token of friendship from any source whatever awakens and calls into action every sympathetic feeling; it brings up in an instant everything that is passed; it seizes the present with the avidity of lightning; it grasps after the future with the fierceness of a tiger; it moves the mind backward and forward, from one thing to another, until finally all enmity, malice and hatred, and past differences, misunderstandings and mismanagements are slain victorious at the feet of hope; and when the heart is sufficiently contrite, then the voice of inspiration steals along and whispers, [D&C 121:7-25].
[DHC3:293-294] ~ Joseph Smith Jr.

You are in love, at a point where pride and apprehension scuffle within you. Part of you wants time to slow down: for this, you say to yourself, is the best period of your whole life. I am in love, I want to savour it, study it, lie around in languor with it; may today last forever. This is your poetical side. However, there is also your prose side, which urges time not to slow down but hurry up. How do you know this is love, your prose side whispers like a sceptical lawyer, it's only been around for a few weeks, a few months. You won't know it's the real thing unless you (and she) still feel the same in, oh, a year or so at least; that's the only way to prove you aren't living a dragonfly mistake. Get through this bit, however much you enjoy it, as fast as possible; then you'll be able to find out whether or not you're really in love. ~ Julian Barnes

Oskar's lips are only a few inches away. "But I'm not scared of you."
The corner of his mouth curves up, and then he brushes his lips over mine. They're cool and soft and it's over way too soon. We stare at each other. "Can I do that again?" he whispers ... ~ Sarah Fine

Are the Trials starting?" The girl claps her hands over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I - "

"It's all right." I don't smile at her. It will only scare her. For a female slave, a smile from a Mask is not usually a good thing. "I'm actually wondering the same thing. What's your name?"

"S-slave-Girl." Of course. My mother would already have scourged her name out of existence.

"Right. You work for the Commandant?" I want her to say no. I want her to say that my mother roped her into this. I want her to say she's assigned to the kitchens or infirmary, where slaves aren't scarred or missing body parts.

But the girl nods in response to my question. Don't let my mother break you, I think. The girl meets my eyes, and there is that feeling again, low and hot and consuming. Don't be weak. Fight. Escape.

A gust of wind whips a strand free from her bun and across her cheekbone. Defiance flashes across her face as she holds my gaze, and for a second, I see my own desire for freedom mirrored, intensified in her eyes. It's something I've never detected in the eyes of a fellow student, let alone a Scholar slave. For one strange moment, I feel less alone.

But then she looks down, and I wonder at my own naiveté. She can't fight. She can't scape. Not from Blackcliff. I smile joylessly; in this, at least, the slave and I are more similar than she'll ever know. ~ Sabaa Tahir

I've been nothing but an asshole to you since the first day we met."
"I know."
He rests his forehead against mine as his hands move across my back. "I've pushed you away, time and again. Yet you still want me to kiss you?"
"Yes. A lot."
He grazes his hands over my ribs, and his voice is soft and breathless when he says, "Don't you see how fucked up this is? How bad I'd be for you?"
"I know," I say, unable to stop looking at his mouth, "but do you want it? Do you want…me?"
Just say it. Please.
He swallows again, and whispers, "Fuck, yes. ~ Leisa Rayven

His fingers tighten, drawing my leg open so that ours knees touch and he leans closer to me. "Not at all," he whispers in a spine-tingling purr, eyes alight with secret sparkle. "It should scare you. It should scare you and enliven you. It should make you want to start a fire. Because you can. ~ A.L. Davroe

Imagine you're sitting having dinner in a restaurant. At some point during the meal, your companion leans over and whispers that they've spotted Lady Gaga eating at the table opposite. Before having a look for yourself, you'll no doubt have some sense of how much you believe your friends theory. You'll take into account all of your prior knowledge: perhaps the quality of the establishment, the distance you are from Gaga's home in Malibu, your friend's eyesight. That sort of thing. If pushed, it's a belief that you could put a number on. A probability of sorts. As you turn to look at the woman, you'll automatically use each piece of evidence in front of you to update your belief in your friend's hypothesis Perhaps the platinum-blonde hair is consistent with what you would expect from Gaga, so your belief goes up. But the fact that she's sitting on her own with no bodyguards isn't, so your belief goes down. The point is, each new observations adds to your overall assessment. This is all Bayes' theorem does: offers a systematic way to update your belief in a hypothesis on the basis of the evidence. It accepts that you can't ever be completely certain about the theory you are considering, but allows you to make a best guess from the information available. So, once you realize the woman at the table opposite is wearing a dress made of meat -- a fashion choice that you're unlikely to chance up on in the non-Gaga population -- that might be enough to tip your belief over the thresho ~ Hannah Fry

Tarver," she whispers, her eyes on my face. "There'll be cameras all the time. More questions. Everyone will want to hear your story. Your life will be different, no matter how far from Corinth we go." A flashlight flickers through the trees, broken and jagged as it shines past the trunks. The light glances off her face, illuminating her eyes for a brief, brilliant moment. I step closer.
"I don't care."
"My father will try to - " She swallows, then lifts her chin, mouth firming to a straight, determined line. "No. I'll figure out a way to handle him." I can't help but grin down at her, this steely assurance, my Lilac through and through.
"I'd pay to see that showdown. ~ Amie Kaufman

But you don't get social with your employees," I remind him quietly.
"I'd made an exception for you." His face is getting close and closer. Slowly. A centimetre at a time.
"But it's your rule."
"I'll break it for you," he whispers.
"No, don't do that," I say breathlessly.
"Fine, then you're fired," he says just as his lips meet mine. ~ M. Leighton

And he leans in, so carefully. Breathing
and not breathing and hearts beating
between us and he's so close, he's so close and I can't feel my legs anymore. I can't feel my fingers or the cold or the emptiness of this room because all I feel is him, everywhere,filling everything and he whispers
"Please."
He says "Please don't shoot me for this."
And he kisses me.
His lips are softer than anything I've ever known, soft like a first snowfall, like biting into cotton candy, like melting and floating and being weightless in water. It's sweet, it's
so effortlessly sweet.
And then it changes.
"Oh God - "
He kisses me again, this time stronger,
desperate, like he has to have me, like he's dying to memorize the feel of my lips against his own. The taste of him is making me crazy; he's all heat and desire and peppermint and I want more. I've just begun reeling him in, pulling him into me when he breaks away.
He's breathing like he's lost his mind andhe's looking at me like something has brokeninside of him, like he's woken up to find that
his nightmares were just that, that they never existed, that it was all just a bad dream that felt far too real but now he's awake and he's safe and everything is going to be okay and
I'm falling.
I'm falling apart and into his heart and I'm a disaster. ~ Tahereh Mafi

Dear one, near me, truth assessed, reborn worldwise, mind at rest. True heart sow you, God has blessed, your soul whispers, love confessed. ~ George Harrison

You're so bad at good-byes, he whispers in my ear. Which is true. There is an average of about forty-seven minutes between the time we first type "goodnight" and the moment we actually stop sending our words back and forth. ~ Stephanie Perkins

Memory in these incomparable streets, in mosaics of pain and sweetness, was clear to me now, a unity at last. I remembered small and unimportant things from the past: the whispers of roommates during thunderstorms, the smell of brass polish on my fingertips, the first swim at Folly Beach in April, lightning over the Atlantic, shelling oysters at Bowen's Island during a rare Carolina snowstorm, pigeons strutting across the graveyard at St. Philip's, lawyers moving out of their offices to lunch on Broad Street, the darkness of reveille on cold winter mornings, regattas, the flash of bagpipers' tartans passing in review, blue herons on the marshes, the pressure of the chinstrap on my shako, brotherhood, shad roe at Henry's, camellias floating above water in a porcelain bowl, the scowl of Mark Santoro, and brotherhood again. ~ Pat Conroy