hips

These hips are mighty hips.These hips are magic hips.I have known themto put a spell on a manand spin him like a top

I don__ believe we should carry backupplans in life__ suitcase__hey__e too easy to unpack like living a life in yoga pants, so comfortable our hips spreadinto new timezones...

The circumference of your breast may change; the shape of your hips may change; the size of your pants may also change. But your life never changes unless your thoughts, your plans and your actions change! Think big things!

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words__he bride__nd spaces__he groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it__ yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat__ others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

You start out happy that you have no hips or boobs. All of a sudden you get them, and it feels sloppy. Then just when you start liking them, they start drooping.

I feel your words on my lipsand feel your mood in my hips

Temujin watched Borte's ballet, her elegance on the fulcrum of her hips.

And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird's, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.

A man should be more original than a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates. Flowers die and sugar sticks to your hips like a permanent record to a criminal.