Novelas y relatos de Best Love Poetry Books

"This is our home! Selene isn't back yet, so I won't let you do this to our home! Tell me—where did she go? Tell me!" Seeing how frantic he was, the lawyer sighed and said, "Ms. Adkins left a message for you. She said, 'With my heart long dead, where does love belong? A heart that has been shattered can never be pieced back together—just like how a past flame cannot be rekindled.' "So… Mr. Langley, you should let go." Jacob felt as if a hole had been carved into his chest, the cold air stabbing at his lungs with unbearable pain. A wave of dizziness hit him just then, sending a shiver down his spine.

he asked, taking another sip of his coffee. "A book," was her dry reply, without even looking up. Nic gritted his teeth. "I'm aware of that. What's the title?" he asked, with less patience than before. "How to kill someone you don't like in two days." Nic had to laugh on the inside. She really was a funny piece of work. She still had yet to learn her manners, but she would. He would be damn sure of that. He walked over to her and snatched the book from her hands. Before she could protest, he read the title to himself. '100 Greatest Love Poems of All Time'. He handed the book back to her and walked to the bar area and sipped some more of his coffee.

Well, I think it is quite funny. Love happens every second, love grows everywhere, it has no specification, it knows no boundaries or gender and it spread with the speed of time. We might think that our relationship is imperfect just because we found it in an unusual place, but if we actually cherish it, we would realize that those unusual places are the best places for the love to grow. I believe love happens unexpectedly and true love will always overcome adversity, no matter the struggles and battles, true love always prevails.

The observation hung between them, raw and unspoken. Clarisse plucked a slim volume from the shelf—Sappho’s fragments, its cover worn soft by time. "My favorite," she said, tracing the spine with that finger. "She wrote about love in broken pieces. Like us." She didn’t look at Amara, but her words landed like stones in still water. Like us. Amara reached for a book on her own—Machiavelli’s The Prince, the Italian edition she’d read on the jet. Her fingers brushed the scar on her wrist as she opened it, the silver line catching the dim light.

"The best love is the kind that awakens the soul; that makes us reach for more; that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds" How can this girl always manage to pluck the exact feeling in my heart? -

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier. The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight. The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.

Gladys says, smiling at me and the ladies scream in longing at what has been bestowed for me. “Lastly…” Gladys says, presenting a stack of book towards me. “This is a volume of the king’s favorite books, bound in the finest leather and edged in gold. These poems are shared with you as a token of his desire to connect through the words that move him." Once again, there is an audible sigh spread through the women. "To share his favorite verses," one woman mused aloud. “To connect with him on such an intimate level... What I would give to hold that book, to read the words that move him." Another adds.

I was breathless, he always got me there. The moonlight spilled into the room and was our only way of seeing anything. The dim light was comforting and made every unexpected touch intensify. I loved the feeling of him being close to me. His words rather whispers made me feel things I never felt before. Everything about him is unique and special, I love him and I will always do. Spending time with him is all I want, I pulled him closer to me, and as he pressed my naked body, I smiled and kissed him, he opened his mouth to make the kiss, even more, deeper, as his tongue played with mine, I moaned with satisfaction.