Cashmere wool. The soft, delicate, cool touch of silk against my face on a crisp spring morning. The rough, aged feel of tree bark underneath my fingertips as I walk through fresh cut grass covered in dew. The warmth of the sun on my shoulders feels like hot water rushing down my back and the wind pulls me in directions that I have never explored.
I will change anything for you. I will change myself. I will change my life. I will change my mind. That’s dangerous. Love is a poison. But I will change. Anything. Everything. Anyone. Everyone. Just to feel your skin on mine again, your lips caressing mine so sweetly. Once more.
the texture was vast and dark
among the night of paradise
a child screams
cuts through the night
the deep dark textured innocence
awake and feel the slight of hand
the rough callused beckoning
still waiting
hungered
wanting to touch, to feel
to open and feel the sweet night
the darkness
She had one blanket in particular that she was fond of. It didn’t matter how long she had it or how old the ratty cloth was. Something about the texture of it against her skin made her feel safe. Whenever she felt the need to breakdown and give up on life, she had her blanket to wrap around her frail body and provide her with the comfort that no one else could give her.
The texture of the wall was melting away like hot chocolate, or charamel that had been laying to long out in the sun. The madness in the room made everything fade and wither, like a natures autumn come to an explosive, all-time end.
“Wait, you don’t like beans?”
“No. It’s weird, because I like hummus and refried beans, but beans themselves have a texture I just hate.”
“I don’t get it. They’re just kind of soft and mushy.”
“That’s it exactly — they’re soft and mushy, but look like they should be crunchy. I hate food that lies.”
I like soft things. I love the texture of jute. And its smell
Anythign with texture rocks
It makes things differetmt
Unlike colour and shape
Mangoes
Pinkfloyd
Smooth
Rough elbows
Lips
Prem’s hand
Beautiful
the texture was vast and dark
among the night of paradise
a child screams
cuts through the night
the deep dark textured innocence
awake and feel the slight of hand
the rough callused beckoning
still waiting
hungered
wanting to touch, to feel
to open and feel the sweet night
the darkness
The texture was rough. It was like sand paper rubbing against your skin. she wanted to get home and just get out of those jeans. what drove her to wear them in the first place? she wondered.
Texture is textrue to itself. The shape and the smell is rectangular as opposed to the spherical blindness of thought. Silk has a nice texture, just not those nasty silk shirts that make your hands feel rough.
The devils eye ran down my neck, resting on my clavical, drool dripping from his puckered lips. My thighs ran with sweat, my heart barely contained by my chest. the roughness of his gaze combined with his scent drove me insatiably wild.
When I reached across the bed, I could feel the warmth of the blanket. The soft blanket, comforting. Beneath, she lay, the source of the heat. My hand slid under the blanket. Her skin, too, was soft.
It’s what you feel when you touch it. If your blind at the moment can’t see it but you feel it. Walking straight into a wall in the dark, and hitting yourself on the wall, yeah you feel the texture. When you step on a pokey yeah you feel the pokes its texture. When you walk in the grass and it’s cold yeah it’s texture.
The texture of my hands has never been that much appealing to me. It’s weird. It’s neither rough, nor smooth. It’s not like I don’t do anything, or I do too many things. It’s just weird. My hands. They feel weird. I guess this is what happens when you flay your own skin.
Texture is what we feel when we touch something, but what do we call it when we touch someone? Is that emotional texture? Have I been textured? There are tons of textures coming into my life this way everyday. May I be the ‘silk’ in your life.
“You have to be sure of what texture of the carpet you want or need,” her friend said.
The woman kept brushing her hands on the patches of carpet laid on the table.
“I just can’t pick one! It’s hard if you love everything!” she complained.
Dost one not feel the rough texture of though sandpaper which caresses thy buttocks on the night of the full moon? Dost he not wish for a softer toilet paper? Texture.
ah! texture! it is texture that always gets into the deepest parts. the texture of anything describes everything about it. it defines it’s purpose, it’s feelings…..the way you’ll feel when u touch it. texture is the most important part of anything
I ran my hand up and down the railing as I walked to the lightrail station. It was smooth enough that it must have been freshly painted. As i walked, I daydreamed abut the day the group of us took the day off to make the drive up the steep and windy road to the large peak the locals called Redtop Mountain.
the texture of the fabric is soft and smooth between my fingers. It reminds me of a favorite dress I had once upon a time, perhaps as a child. In many years, the swatch will be a rough cotton fiber, pilled and worn away from many hands feeling its softness from long ago.
the feel of something when you touch it.
sometimes the texture is for pleasure but it may be for pain
There are different types of texture, some are hard, rough, and others are smooth and soft
texture can define many things in the world, just by the touch of your fingers
the feel of skin
fabric
food
water
the emotions touch evokes
lust
calm
anger
i am feeling the keys, touching them, memorizing their metal coolness
as i write
The detective rolled the over body, the texture of the tile and pooling of blood under the skin made markings on her body that looked like tribal paint. The tribe of death, she died too young and he was getting too damn old for this kind of case.
the texture of this computer is really hard. I wish it wasnt this hard. Wouldn’t it be cool if they make a computer pillow. Its a computer and pillow in one. And it actually work. That would be cool.
feeling of a substance.
different textures can feel nice or not nice in your mouth or to the touch
there are even different textures of music
smooth
rough
bumpy
silky
soft
hard
many different textures
loops, a coated mat of cotton loops. soft at first, rough with the wear and tear of use. rough like how towels felt when mom would lay them out to dry. These were plush. new. covered more than the sequined dress she wore last night.
“The texture of this is very nice,” the wife said as the husband rolled his eyes. 6 hours they’ve been shopping and the husband has missed 2 games and an episode of bay watch. Never has he ever wanted to kill this woman more than right now.
texture. one word with many a significance. this word can remind us of so many lines and symmetry, cloors and designs. it brings forth hues n vivacity of emotions, passion, ..various facets of life n it’s meaning.
The side of the couch is rough, like stone. I can’t see your face but I know your sitting there, in the dark. I can see the glowing end of your cigarette. I reach out my hand and touch your cheek. Your face is warn and bumpy. You haven’t shaved in weeks.
The texture of the cloth in her hands made simple tears begin to rise in her eyes. It was silk, the finest silk from Magistere, and she knew that it would always remind her of her mother. This had been her mother’s dress first, and now it was torn, ripped with the lash of the imaginary whip that had lashed upon her. Her breaths came quickly, and Serafina clenched her hands in fists as the pain washed over her, and the terror of her angry mother standing over her.
Then Tyler was there, and he tugged the silk from her hands to comfort her.
Cashmere wool. The soft, delicate, cool touch of silk against my face on a crisp spring morning. The rough, aged feel of tree bark underneath my fingertips as I walk through fresh cut grass covered in dew. The warmth of the sun on my shoulders feels like hot water rushing down my back and the wind pulls me in directions that I have never explored.
I will change anything for you. I will change myself. I will change my life. I will change my mind. That’s dangerous. Love is a poison. But I will change. Anything. Everything. Anyone. Everyone. Just to feel your skin on mine again, your lips caressing mine so sweetly. Once more.
the texture was vast and dark
among the night of paradise
a child screams
cuts through the night
the deep dark textured innocence
awake and feel the slight of hand
the rough callused beckoning
still waiting
hungered
wanting to touch, to feel
to open and feel the sweet night
the darkness
She had one blanket in particular that she was fond of. It didn’t matter how long she had it or how old the ratty cloth was. Something about the texture of it against her skin made her feel safe. Whenever she felt the need to breakdown and give up on life, she had her blanket to wrap around her frail body and provide her with the comfort that no one else could give her.
The texture of the wall was melting away like hot chocolate, or charamel that had been laying to long out in the sun. The madness in the room made everything fade and wither, like a natures autumn come to an explosive, all-time end.
“Wait, you don’t like beans?”
“No. It’s weird, because I like hummus and refried beans, but beans themselves have a texture I just hate.”
“I don’t get it. They’re just kind of soft and mushy.”
“That’s it exactly — they’re soft and mushy, but look like they should be crunchy. I hate food that lies.”
I like soft things. I love the texture of jute. And its smell
Anythign with texture rocks
It makes things differetmt
Unlike colour and shape
Mangoes
Pinkfloyd
Smooth
Rough elbows
Lips
Prem’s hand
Beautiful
the texture was vast and dark
among the night of paradise
a child screams
cuts through the night
the deep dark textured innocence
awake and feel the slight of hand
the rough callused beckoning
still waiting
hungered
wanting to touch, to feel
to open and feel the sweet night
the darkness
Your skin, wrinkly and rough, against mine, smooth for now.
When your skin crumbles away into ash
Let mine crumble with you
Because I don’t want to say goodbye
To the clash of our textures
Perfection burns forever.
The texture was rough. It was like sand paper rubbing against your skin. she wanted to get home and just get out of those jeans. what drove her to wear them in the first place? she wondered.
Texture is textrue to itself. The shape and the smell is rectangular as opposed to the spherical blindness of thought. Silk has a nice texture, just not those nasty silk shirts that make your hands feel rough.
rough
hands
feeling
confusing
words
no idea
hard
soft
The devils eye ran down my neck, resting on my clavical, drool dripping from his puckered lips. My thighs ran with sweat, my heart barely contained by my chest. the roughness of his gaze combined with his scent drove me insatiably wild.
When I reached across the bed, I could feel the warmth of the blanket. The soft blanket, comforting. Beneath, she lay, the source of the heat. My hand slid under the blanket. Her skin, too, was soft.
It’s what you feel when you touch it. If your blind at the moment can’t see it but you feel it. Walking straight into a wall in the dark, and hitting yourself on the wall, yeah you feel the texture. When you step on a pokey yeah you feel the pokes its texture. When you walk in the grass and it’s cold yeah it’s texture.
felt and not seen. an easy excuse for touching. sometimes it is even more satisfying. no text can describe the feeling.
The texture of my hands has never been that much appealing to me. It’s weird. It’s neither rough, nor smooth. It’s not like I don’t do anything, or I do too many things. It’s just weird. My hands. They feel weird. I guess this is what happens when you flay your own skin.
Texture is what we feel when we touch something, but what do we call it when we touch someone? Is that emotional texture? Have I been textured? There are tons of textures coming into my life this way everyday. May I be the ‘silk’ in your life.
the feeling of something on your fingertips. the touch of something on your skin. the defined crevices and ridges of an item.
“You have to be sure of what texture of the carpet you want or need,” her friend said.
The woman kept brushing her hands on the patches of carpet laid on the table.
“I just can’t pick one! It’s hard if you love everything!” she complained.
Dost one not feel the rough texture of though sandpaper which caresses thy buttocks on the night of the full moon? Dost he not wish for a softer toilet paper? Texture.
ah! texture! it is texture that always gets into the deepest parts. the texture of anything describes everything about it. it defines it’s purpose, it’s feelings…..the way you’ll feel when u touch it. texture is the most important part of anything
I ran my hand up and down the railing as I walked to the lightrail station. It was smooth enough that it must have been freshly painted. As i walked, I daydreamed abut the day the group of us took the day off to make the drive up the steep and windy road to the large peak the locals called Redtop Mountain.
the texture of the fabric is soft and smooth between my fingers. It reminds me of a favorite dress I had once upon a time, perhaps as a child. In many years, the swatch will be a rough cotton fiber, pilled and worn away from many hands feeling its softness from long ago.
the feel of something when you touch it.
sometimes the texture is for pleasure but it may be for pain
There are different types of texture, some are hard, rough, and others are smooth and soft
texture can define many things in the world, just by the touch of your fingers
the feel of skin
fabric
food
water
the emotions touch evokes
lust
calm
anger
i am feeling the keys, touching them, memorizing their metal coolness
as i write
The detective rolled the over body, the texture of the tile and pooling of blood under the skin made markings on her body that looked like tribal paint. The tribe of death, she died too young and he was getting too damn old for this kind of case.
make things unhappy
Tony licked along Loki’s stomach, relishing the bumps and ridges he had in his Jotun form.
“You’re gorgeous,” he remarked, glancing up to meet his lover’s red eyes. Loki scoffed.
“If you insist,” he muttered.
the texture of this computer is really hard. I wish it wasnt this hard. Wouldn’t it be cool if they make a computer pillow. Its a computer and pillow in one. And it actually work. That would be cool.
feeling of a substance.
different textures can feel nice or not nice in your mouth or to the touch
there are even different textures of music
smooth
rough
bumpy
silky
soft
hard
many different textures
feeling fuzzy
cannot touch but
can feel nonetheless
feeling sharp
it pricks u
in a way that only hurts
very far away
u feel so prickly
but also
rather
comfortable
in my hands
the way an object or surface feels like
touching is how we know an object’s texture
rough
smooth
skin is the organ we use to know the texture
loops, a coated mat of cotton loops. soft at first, rough with the wear and tear of use. rough like how towels felt when mom would lay them out to dry. These were plush. new. covered more than the sequined dress she wore last night.
The texture of the walls in my house is beautiful
“The texture of this is very nice,” the wife said as the husband rolled his eyes. 6 hours they’ve been shopping and the husband has missed 2 games and an episode of bay watch. Never has he ever wanted to kill this woman more than right now.
texture. one word with many a significance. this word can remind us of so many lines and symmetry, cloors and designs. it brings forth hues n vivacity of emotions, passion, ..various facets of life n it’s meaning.
The side of the couch is rough, like stone. I can’t see your face but I know your sitting there, in the dark. I can see the glowing end of your cigarette. I reach out my hand and touch your cheek. Your face is warn and bumpy. You haven’t shaved in weeks.
Texture is a confusing word. There is foo texture, there is image texture, there is cloth tetxture. Of these which one is most creative one?
The texture of the cloth in her hands made simple tears begin to rise in her eyes. It was silk, the finest silk from Magistere, and she knew that it would always remind her of her mother. This had been her mother’s dress first, and now it was torn, ripped with the lash of the imaginary whip that had lashed upon her. Her breaths came quickly, and Serafina clenched her hands in fists as the pain washed over her, and the terror of her angry mother standing over her.
Then Tyler was there, and he tugged the silk from her hands to comfort her.