Quotes About Lips

I heard you good with them soft lips.. Yeah you know word of mouth

When we kiss, his lips on mine are like CPR-- breathing the life back into me.

Smile. it's the second best thing you can do with your lips.

Tú que tanto has besado tú que me has enseñado, sabes mejor que yo que hasta los huesos sólo calan los besos que no has dado, los labios del pecado.

Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare, That does not slake thirst, is not wet. Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer. Is it mine to forget? On how many desert roads have searched I With him who wasn't dear for me, How many bows gave in church I For him, who had well loved me. I've become more oblivious than inviting, Quietly years swim. Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling -- Nothing will give me back him.

What artist could recreate Sidonie's sensuous beauty? No mere dauber could capture the feminine musk on the air. Or depict the soft, uneven pattern of her breathing. Her skin was flushed. A pulse fluttered in the hollow of her throat. Her lips were full and dark, although he'd hardly kissed her. Over and over in the mirrors, she emerged from the loosened gown like a water lily from a lake. He loomed over her like a nightmare.

Take words with you and return to the LORD. Say to him: "Forgive all our sins and receive us graciously, that we may offer the fruit of our lips." HOSEA 14: 2

what red lips you have," he said in her ear. Did she dare say it? "All the better to kiss you with, my dear," she replied. And then their lips met.

The prophet—coming forth from time to time with the divine word hot as fire on his lips—speaks out the ancient truth and illuminates tradition. But they who cling to the words of tradition are apt to be blinded by the light of the fire and to call out "heretic" against the one who speaks the truth that they have lost.

I have this prominent feature on my face - I don't know if you've noticed - but, well, they're my lips. They tend to walk into a room before I do because they're larger than average! So Chapstick's a big one for me.

That day was the beginning of my friendship with Sebastian, and thus it came about, that morning in June, that I was lying beside him in the shade of the high elms watching the smoke from his lips drift up into the branches.

The anguished suspense of watching the lips you hunger for, framing the words, the death sentence, of sheer triteness!

Her beauty was cool as this damp breeze, as the moist softness of her own lips.

He was remembering too vividly the youth and freshness of her lips.

Let us be as chaste as dead lips, as pure as dreamed bodies, as resigned to being both these things as mad little nuns …

Her beautiful eyes and lips were very grave as she made her choice, and Anthony thought again how naive was her every gesture; she took all the things of life for hers to choose from and apportion, as though she were continually picking out presents for herself from an inexhaustible counter.

It's quite nice to have a bit more color on the lips during wintertime. And it's festive, isn't it?

I had very big lips growing up, so my brother started to call me Scooter Fish because he decided a scooter fish has big lips.

I got a Valentine's Day card from my girl. It said, 'Take my heart! Take my arms! Take my lips!' Which is just like her. Keeping the best part for herself.

His face was so ravaged, it was like looking at death itself. Except for the smooth, silvered part of it. By creeping degrees, his human hand lifted. He turned it over, showing a bloody palm. His cracked lips moved. Beloved. He could not say the word, but I knew it. So did his Fool.

One corner of his mouth crooked up, then the quirk vanished in a thoughtful pursing of his lips. "He's bisexual, you know." He took a delicate sip of his wine. "Yes," she agreed absently, looking fondly across the room. "Now he's monogamous." Vordarian choked, sputtering.

no argument of his could hope to dam the flow of words that poured over the spillway of Price Macomber's lips.

The silence sat down with them like an invisible creature with its finger to its lips.

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart it torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music.