Best 1397 quotes in «romantic quotes» category

Whoever said that time doesn't stop for anyone, apparently had never seen her smile, looking me in the eye, not shying away from the hold my gaze had on her. Whoever said that you can't hold all the happiness of this world within you, obviously had never wrapped her frame into their arms, arms that were coiled around perfection. Whoever said that you can't fly, evidently hadn't been in love ever.

Whose ideas breathe through me? Am I a thief? Do I dream my own dreams?

Why believe in dreams, that promise a reality, which will never be?

Why do yo keep doing this?" "Because I've wanted to be with you for three years, okay? That's why.

Why do you want me?" I asked, suppressing the trembling of my voice. "I’m strange, definitely not perfect, and fucked up. Actually, a lot of the latter.” “Perfect is boring and overrated.” He smiled that lopsided grin of his that made my lower abdomen twist and curl with delicious desire. “I’m looking for sexy, fun, kind, and honest. And you tick all the right boxes, Brooke.

Why him?He was as likely to offer me security and safety as a violent terrorist holding a gun to my head.So why I had chosen him?Because he had charmed me into a love affair,had truly convinced me he was madly in love with me.

Why?" He stopped pacing and looked at her as if she'd just asked him to count every leaf on every tree in the Old Place. "Because... you're you.

why should I die and loose you to tell god how much I love you...

Wine?" I asked, ready to order. "I’d rather have Sex on the Beach." He winked at me with a devilish grin.

Winter reaches its peak not when a great wind screams from the top of its lungs, but when a lazy breeze whispers from the bottom of its heart

With callused hands i tasted the softness of the moon in the coldest winds i discovered my soul's warmest fireplace in the roughness of his stubble the tenderest love.

With one touch of her hand, all my fears are hidden. It's almost like a vivid dream that can't go wrong

Without even thinking about it, she reached out for warmth, reached out for acceptance. She was hurt and as much as she tried to build up the wall of protection and never let anyone in again, Wharick had changed her building capabilities. Wharick had changed her heart.

With skin dressed only in moonlight, she beckons you to her secret garden.

With you as an inspiration, a painter will create his best painting, a writer will write his best literature and a poet will create his best poetry.

Woah, their gorgeous not so fast I haven't even catched your name or your number" - Jaxson Evans

Women always said he was warm. They snuggled with him in bed, grateful for the heat. A couple of his lovers even claimed that, when he was inside them, he heated them from the inside out. A pleasant flattery, perhaps, but one Hope would discover the truth of. For when she touched him, he did burn.

WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE. JO BITE HUE KAL ME THE. BITAYA THA EK WAQT UN DOSTO KE SATH BHULE BISRE UN RATO KE SATH. JITE THE HUM BHI GURUR ME ZINDAGI NA HARNE KE SURAT ME YE ZINDAGI. MILI THI JAB PAHLI NAZAR TUJHSE. GUM HO GAYA THA YE DIL KAHI MUJHSE. RUK GAYA THA WAQT JAISE. THAM GAYI THI YE SAANSE VAISE. WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE. JO BITE HUE KAL ME THE WO CHUP CHUP KAR TUJHE DEKHNA. WO KHAWABHO ME BHI TUJHE DEKHNA WO DUAON ME TUJHE MANGNA WO NIGAHON ME TUJHE BAITHANA YAAD HAI WO SAB…. WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE JO BITE HUE KAL ME THI TAB DIKHAYA TUNE. SACH HI BATAYA TUNE BIKTI HAI JAHAN ME SURAT NA HAI SIRAT KA KOI MOL. MILTI HAI MOHABBAT YAHA KAUDIYO KE MOL. ZIDD THI MERI BHI TUJHE PANE KI. EK DIN TUJHE EHSAS DILANE KI. SURAT TO BAS DO DIN KI KAHANI HAI. SIRAT HI ZINDAGI BHAR KAAM ANI HAI. AJ HOTA HAI TUJHE BHI MAHSOOS. JO KAL MUJH PAR THI BITI. AJJ WO TUJHKO HAI JINI . SAHI KAHA HAI KISI NE MOHABBAT KISI KO PAGAL BANA DE. TO KISI KO PATTHAR BANA DE. WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE. JO BITE HUE KAL ME THE.

Work with what you have. Look good, feel good.

Wow,” she said. “Do you realise how wonderful you sound?” “Yes, I do,” he said with a firm nod. “And I think I’m underappreciated.

Yeah. I left something here that I love.

Yelena, you've driven me crazy. You've caused me considerable trouble and I've contemplated ending your life twice since I've known you...but you slipped under my skin, invaded my blood and seized my heart.

Writing's much more romantic when its pen and ink and paper. It's... More timeless. and worthwhile. Think about it. There are so many words gushing out into the universe these days. All digitally. All in Comic Sans or Times New Roman. Silly Websites. Stupid news stories digitally uploaded to a 24-hour channel. Where's all this writing going? Who's keeping a note of it all? Who's in charge of deciding what's worthwhile and what isn't? But back then... Back then, if someone wanted to write something they had to buy paper. Buy it! And ink. And a pen. And they couldn't waste too many sheets cos it was expensive. So when people wrote, they wrote because it was worthwhile... not just because they had some half-baked idea and they wanted to pointlessly prove their existence by sharing it on some bloody social networking site.

Yes," Buttercup replied. There was a very long pause. "But I must never love again." She never did.

Yes, I have a romantic nature; it is a character flaw which should be viewed with pity, not derision.

Writing requires immortal thoughts hidden in your conscience which lead you to all philosophical, emotional, romantic statistics of the humans of this celestial world.

Yes, she was the girl playing basketball with all the boys in the park, collecting cans by the side of the road, keeping secret pet kittens in an empty boxcar in the woods, walking alone at night through the rail yards, teaching her little sister how to kiss, reading out loud to herself, so absorbed by the story, singing sadly in the tub, building a fort from the junked cars out in the meadow, by herself in the front row at the black-and-white movies or in the alley, gazing at an eddy of cigarette stubs and trash and fall leaves, smoking her first cigarette at dusk by a pile of dead brush in the desert, then wishing at the stars--she was all of them, and she was so much more that just just her that I still didn't know.

Yet despite...accommodations with commerce, Möser regarded the market as primarily a threat--to the artisanal citizens of the town, to the traditional wants of the peasantry, and to the political structure to society, since it created a growing class of people outside the traditional paternalistic relations of the countryside. Möser's conception of contemporary political and economic trends in Osnabrück was essentialy tragic and tinged with that idealization of the past that would later be called romantic. Möser's heroes were the artisan-citizen and the independent peasant, his villains the shopkeeper and the peddler.

Yet for a moment it seemed to him that the men who had dragged marble from Italy and porphyry from Portugal, who had ransacked the jungle for its rarest woods and paid their millions to build this opulent and fantastical theatre, had done so in order that a young girl with loose brown hair should move across its stage, drawing her future from its empty air.

You are a bit like that painting, Minnow. Remember how lovingly and carefully formed you are. Your thoughts, your talents, your memories, your mistakes.... they all make the complete canvas of you. Even though others may mistake your worth, you must never value yourself any less.

You are extremely ROMANTIC if you are not afraid of catching cold and get wet in the rain happily!

You are all I ever need.

You are enough to drive a saint to madness or a king to his knees Excerpt from To Kiss a King by Grace Willows Coming this summer to Amazon Kindle and paperback.

You are a bright light, Elli.’ His own breath hitches, a sound that I cannot quite grasp. His eyes are darkening, his lips tightening. His hands grasp me tighter and he moves closer, his mouth inches from mine, I can almost taste the sweetness and saltiness of his scent, the rich coffee beans and sugar, the vague spearmint. I say nothing, I’m not even sure I’m breathing. ‘You shouldn’t have to see such pain, such blackness. You are too pure.’ His lips do not collide with mine, his skin does not brush against me, only his voice sends a shiver down every notch in my spine, trailing goose bumps over my skin. He tilts his head to the side, his lips gently brushing against my ear. And that is all. I’m not good enough for him. I’m not. That’s why… that’s why… ‘Too pure…

You are a romantic. Marry this woman. Have children. Stepping in baby shit will soon drive thoughts of romance from you.

You are in a relationship with everything around you, even when the relationship seems to appear without a romantic component, the aspects and characteristic of a true relationship such as compassion, awareness, and harmony transcend relationship labels and titles.

You are damaged and broken and unhinged. But so are shooting stars and comets.

You are my favourite part of me.

You are my star and you have made me see,” he tells her, “and I am the air beneath your wings, never rending, never ending.

You are my ground and you are my rainbow. You are my butterfly and you are my ecstasy. You are the start of my journeys and always my destination. You are my home - the place to which I always return.

You are not a note in a symphony; you are the entire symphony in a note.

You are proof alone that I can love.

You are rebirth; therefore you have one foot in life and the other in death.

You are so hot,” I said. “How hot?” she asked, toying with the hem of the shirt. “Ionising radiation hot,” I said. “Neutral pion decay hot.” Elena snorted. “You’re such a romantic,” she said.

You are the Poem I dreamed of writing, the Masterpiece I longed to paint. You are the shining Star I reached for in my ever hopeful quest for life fulfilled. Yes, I am Blessed.

You be the sun, I'll be the moon, let's share the stars and dance in the sky.

You asked if I loved her? I can't even whisper her name, my heart would burst out of my chest.

You are the silence of my thoughts, the alleyways of my brain, the thought in between other thoughts that live, the space between every look I give. In split seconds of my mortality, there you are - my sweet neutrality.

You brought me to places I’d have never thought to go To a trail near the river Where the water runs slow; To a mountain where all we heard Was our voices’ echo; You showed me inward beauty That doesn’t show in photos.

You can tell how often a person thinks of you by how often they tell you they think of you.