touch

That__ what it feels like when you touch me. Like millions of tiny universes being born and then dying in the space between your finger and my skin. Sometimes I forget.

...dark embers smolder inside me - one touch and they flare - who would have thought memory combustible, or near you bright sparks appear?...

In the serenity and quiet of this lovely place, touch the depths of truth, feel the hem of Heaven. And when you leave, don't forget why you came...

It is the touch of a lover's arms that I so desperately crave, not the memories of a love no longer mine.

Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,What can I do to kill it and be free?

Touch has a memory.

our feet are grape-squashed in memoriesour skins are still flushedfrom the touch of summer__ lips.

They make friends, they laugh, they shareThey stay in touch, they care.

Friends might lose touch but never lose feelings

We talk a lot about the five senses: vision, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. I would add one more_imagination.

If you want the waves to touch you softly, have a walk on the sea coasts; if you want the life to touch you softly, have a walk on the reason__ coasts, because reason is a shield that softens the strokes of life!

they say we__e losing centimetresevery year; as if we werea beach that__ losingground with every salt advancethe night is overcastbut why not try, at least,to touch the things our orbitscannot hold, while there__ timewhile we can.

All I'd done for the past ten years was talk about it. I was sick of talking...sick of analyzing...sick of reliving it...sick of the screaming in my head that replayed over and over like a song stuck on repeat.

True love is jealousy in disguise: A man cannot restrict his lover from going to the club because he hates her, he actually hates the men who would come around and touch her.

Sympathies that lie too deep for words, too deep almost for thoughts, are touched, at such times, by other charms than those which the senses feel and which the resources of expression can realise.

The word of lust touches the body, the word of love touches the soul: feed the soul and starve the body.

I am not sad anymore. I am not weak or tender or quiet like you remember because the second you said those words and closed that door, I sold my soul to the part of myself I had buried in order to love you, to let you touch every inch of my rotten body, for I wanted to be touchable and not so strange. Not so sad and tender, like I__e always been, they say, so I changed. And then your glances and words throwing knives with no return about my change of habits and ways of living, being, and I nodded and smiled, dying silently a little bit inside.

I write these words to touch you,My love, In places my hands can only dream of.