Quotes About Intimacy

I love you, Kayla Martin. I want to spend the rest of my life wondering what will happen when I turn on the microwave. I want to explain the X-files to you in bed every night and replace cabinet doors that are dented from your feet.....I want to go to sleep at night knowing that you're puttering around in the other room inventing something that will baffle and confuse me.

I'll die young, but it's like kissing God.

There are never enough 'I love yous'.

there are no ways of love but beautiful I love you all of them

When we give ourselves in love we become our most vulnerable. We are never safe. We become open to disappointment and hurt.

When love is accompanied with deep intimacy, it raises us to the highest level of human experience. In this exalted space, we can surrender our egos, become vulnerable and know levels of joy and well-being unique among life experiences. We attain a glimpse of the rapture that can be ours. Boundaries are blurred, there are no limitations and we rejoice in union. We become one and, at the same time, both.

The husband who doesn't tell his wife everything probably reasons that what she doesn't know won't hurt him.

Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be.

We are asleep until we fall in Love!

He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began.

He stepped down, avoiding any long look at her as one avoids long looks at the sun, but seeing her as one sees the sun, without looking.

For a few seconds they looked silently into each other's eyes, and the distant and impossible suddenly became near, possible, and inevitable.

I can't think of you and myself apart. You and I are the same to me

It's not so much that he can't fall in love, but he has not the weakness necessary.

She put both her hands on his shoulders and gazed at him long, with a deep look of ecstasy and yet searchingly. She scrutinized his face to make up for the time she had not seen him. She compared, as she did at every interview with him, the image her fancy painted of him (incomparably finer than, and impossible in actual existence) with his real self

For those we are born to speak to we need prepare nothing, the lines are ready, everything is there.

They had a great deal in common, Bowman a little defiantly said. What they had in common was more vital than similar interests--it was wordless understanding and accord. It was love, the furnace into which everything is dropped.

Every glance made him need another.

Mythology has accepted him, images he cannot really believe in, images brief as dreams. The sweat rolls down his arms. He tumbles into the damp leaves of love, he rises clean as air. There is nothing about her he does not adore. When they are finished, she lies quiet and limp, exhausted by it all. She has become entirely his, and they lie like drunkards, their bare limbs crossed. In the cold distance the bells begin, filling the darkness, clear as psalms.

Afterwards they lie for a long time in silence. There is nothing. Their poem is scattered about them. The days have fallen everywhere, they have collapsed like cards. The air has a chill in it. He pulls the covers up. She is so perfectly still she seems asleep. He touches her face. It is wet with tears.

I cannot think of it without sadness. I think of the day-long, intimate hours in her apartment with the same record playing over and over, phrases from it like some sort of oath I will know til the day I die.

These are the days of bootleg love.

I was already smitten, aroused, attracted, and addicted to him.

I'm just thinking that would be pleasant. To be reading, say, out of a book, and you to come up and touch me – my neck, say, or my knee – and I'd carry on reading, I might let a smile, no more, wouldn't lose my place on the page. It would be pleasant to come to that. We'd come so close, do you see, that I wouldn't be surprised out of myself every time you touched.