Colleen Houck Quotes - Page 2

Regrets are only felt by those who do not understand life's purpose.

He was my ultimate present my own personal miracle and I'd blown it. I'd given him away. It was like winning backstage passes to meet the rock star of your dreams and donating the tickets to charity. It sucked. Big time.

Saying his name stabbed my heart, like someone had ripped through my carefully stitched up world and exposed the infected, pulsing red tissue that I thought was healing.

Oregon welcomed me like a beloved child, enfolded me in her cool arms, shushed my turbulent thoughts, and promised peace through her whispering pines.

He kissed me fiercely, with an utter abandon that I could no more put a halt to than I could stop an avalanche.

One's enemy is often the best teacher of tolerance.

Why does everything so bad for you always taste so dreamy?

Your heart knows. Your soul remembers.

Okay. So, apparently I find burly Indian men attractive. What's wrong with that?

Tarzan-like men are my weakness, apparently.

I don’t mind being alone either. The only problem is that if you’re always alone, you get lonely.

His eyes drifted leisurely back up to my face and he smiled at me appreciatively, "Kelsey, when a man spends time with a beautiful woman, he needs to pace himself. I quirked my eyebrow at him and laughed. "Yeah, I'm a regular marathon alright." He kissed my fingers. "Exactly. A wise man never sprints...in a marathon.

And yes, I'll admit, I am jealous. I'm jealous of every minute you spend with him, of every concerned expression you send his way, of every tear shed, of every glance, every touch, and every thought. I want to rip him to pieces and purge him from your mind and from your heart. But I can't.

Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said, 'She must weep or she will die.' Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee- Like summer tempest came her tears- 'Sweet my child, I live for thee.' -Alfred Lord Tennyson