Quotes About Tenderness

It was love, and it hit me so hard I leaned against the screen door that still stood between us, just to stay vertical. I wanted to touch him like he was a bunny, a kitten, something so special and soft your fingertips can't leave it alone. The universe was good because he was in it.

I wanted to touch him like he was a bunny, a kitten, something so special and soft your fingertips can't leave it alone. The universe was good because he was in it.

It was love and it hit me so hard I leaned against the screen door that still stood between us,just to stay vertical.I wanted to touch him like he was a bunny,a kitten,something so special and soft your fingertips can't leave it alone.The universe was good because he was in it.I loved the hole in his jeans and the dirt on his bare feet and the scab on his elbow and the scar that laced through one eyebrow.Gat,my Gat.

Can I hold your hand?" he asked. I put mine in his.

Before Annie could answer, he was there, hugging her until her ribs ached and kissing her so hard that her lips felt bruised.

You smell heavenly. I slept on your side of your side of the bed because your pillow smells of you.

A thousand little civilities create tenderness in time.

The second dream is more difficult to convey. Nothing happened. He scarcely saw a face, scarcely heard a voice say, "That is your friend," and then it was over, having filled him with beauty and taught him tenderness. He could die for such a friend, he would allow such a friend to die for him; they would make any sacrifice for each other, and count the world nothing, neither death nor distance nor crossness could part them, because "this is my friend.

He never even thought of tenderness and emotion; his considerations about Durham remained cold. Durham didn't dislike him, he was sure. That was all he wanted. One thing at a time. He didn't so much as have hopes, for hope distracts, and he had a great deal to see to.

Boys are marvellous creatures. Perhaps they will sink below the brutes; perhaps they will attain to a woman's tenderness.

It was English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these roles do the English excel. It was a comrade, bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air.

it was English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these roles do the English excel. It was a comrade bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air. It was a comrade.

A kiss is a rosy dot over the 'i' of loving.

I crossed the room, and what you did was to feel my hair over and over again and in different ways, touch it, with the palm of your hand... felt it, strands of hair, with your fingers, touched it as if it were cloth, the way a child touches its favorite surfaces.

Over many years, I found that if I could relate with food with warmhearted compassion, eventually I could learn to treat people with love and respect, and I could touch my own wounds with tenderness.

Your tiny hand is frozen, let me warm it in mine.

Mother, the ribbons of your love are woven around my heart.

Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.

What are little girls made of?Sugar and spice, and everything nice;That's what little girls are made of.

I'm just giving you some spiel, the ludicrous plot of a novel, a story I invented to touch your heart—one-third bullshit, one-third booze, and one-third genuine tenderness, you know the kind of thing.

comerei beijos como quem come sopa, e palitarei as gengivas no fim para extrair dos molares restos incómodos de ternura

The way her fingers flutter through the space around her. Each a thing he hopes never to forget.

The more sentimental, the better.

His voice is low and soft, a piece of silk you might keep in a drawer and pull out only on rare occasions, just to feel it between your fingers.