Picking Daisies on Sundays (Picking Daisies on Sundays, #1)

by Liana Cincotti

For the hopeless, and hopeful, romantics who don’t know they’re noticed in a crowded room.

“You intoxicate me, Daisy. The scent of flowers lingers on you everywhere you go, and I always want to follow,”

how could you provide me air and suffocate me at the same time?

She lives in between the pinks and yellows of the world / where a beautiful color is unknown to others / and when she speaks, I become a bee enthralled in a field of daisies

“The whole book,” he breathed. “Every poem in there is about you. Everything I wrote came back to you.”

“I’m so grateful for everything I have in life, I am. But when I see you, all I can think about is how much better life would be if you were mine. I’m so infatuated with everything you do, from the color of your lips to the way you slide your hips back and forth when you dance to the way you twist your earrings when you’re upset or how you blush when I touch you and how you breathe when I say Daisy.”

“I love you more than my heart can physically handle.”

“Say you love me,”

“Because when you find out the person you’ve been in love with for your entire life loves you back, you’ll spend the rest of your life making up for lost time.”

I once was poison ivy, but now I’m your daisy. – Don’t Blame Me, Taylor Swift

I’d get on my knees and worship her if I could have this every day. Her hips my altar and her lips my religion.