۶isilৎ

“I was waiting for the sun to chase me,” he breathes, drawing me to his chest. In one swift movement, my lips are on his. The world is spinning. He kisses me like this is the moment he’s envisioned all his life. Like this is heaven on Earth.
For me, it is. A blissful moment before something that could be the end. The rush before the fear. He whispers, “I fucking love you.”
I smile, my lips tingling. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I love you more than chocolate cake.”
― Krista Ritchie, Hothouse Flower

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts...
There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end,— [Sings.]
“For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Thought and afflictions, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.
Song. And will a not come again? And will a not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, Flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ’a’ mercy on his soul.”
― William Shakespeare

“I love you,” he says again, “and no other man will ever say those words and mean them the way I do.”
― Krista Ritchie, Ricochet

“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
― William Shakespeare, As You Like It