Quotes About Intimacy

He breathes in. He breathes out. He turns his head and breathes into the whorls of her ear; he breathes in his strength, his health, his all. You will stay, is what he whispers, and I will go. He sends these words into her: I want you to take my life. It shall be yours. I give it to you.

He takes them in his hands; he meets their steady gazes; he looks into their identical eyes; he arranges them, head to foot, upon his knee; he watches as one takes the thumb of the other into its mouth and sucks upon it; he sees that the pair have led a life together that began before anything else. He touches their heads with both of his palms. You, he says, and you.

They have been together for so many years that they are no longer like two people but one strange four-legged creature. For her, so much of their marriage is about talk: she likes to talk, he likes to listen. Without him, she has no one to whom she can address her remarks, her observations, her running commentary about life in general.

Qu'as-tu vu? lui demande-t-il. - Rien. Ton cÅ"ur. - Ce n'est rien? dit-il, faussement outré. Rien? Comment peux-tu dire une chose pareille?" Elle lui sourit, fait semblant de sourire, mais il lui prend alors la main et la pose sur sa poitrine. "Et ce n'est pas mon cÅ"ur que tu as vu, lui dit-il. Mais le tien.

When I looked back at him I saw that he was looking at her, I saw the way it was, that he might dissolve like sugar in water, and when I saw this I—

and when I first saw him I thought I might dissolve, like sugar in water.

When he took my hand he taught me something about the value of touch, the communicative power of the human hand.

For a long moment they gazed at each other, and Freddy felt her mouth go dry and her heartbeat accelerate. If the evening ended right now, she would still remember this moment for all her days. The music, the perfume of the flower baskets, and the hard look of desire in Dal's eyes.

Dal … Dal …" Mindlessly, she whispered his name as his kisses deepened and became possessive and deliberate. But slow. Exploring. Teasing. Never quite enough. Kisses that drank desire from her mouth and left her frantic with wanting, wanting, wanting.

This time his kiss was full and provocative, summoning sensations she had believed, had hop, were submerged too deeply to be awakened. But his fingers on her face, his mouth, his lips, stirred slumbering emotions and coaxed them to life. His hands moved to cup her head, to spread across her spine, and he crushed her against him as their kisses deepened.

You are so beautiful," he breathed. Standing over her, rampant in the moonlight, he gazed down at her body. "You are as lovely and as perfect as I imagined you would be." Afraid to believe, afraid to trust, she dared a look at him and felt her heart wrench when she read his expression and understood that she truly was whole and beautiful in his eyes. She was a magnificent to him as he was to her.

I say, 'I will not be your weakness, Sean Kendrick.' Now he looks at me. He says, very softly, 'It's late for that, Puck.

Sam: You—you greatly overestimate my self-control." Grace: I'm not looking for self-control.

And then I opened my eyes and it was just Grace and me - nothing anywhere but Grace and me - she pressing her lips together as though she were keeping my kiss inside her, and me, holding this moment that was as fragile as a bird in my hands.

Be my lover between two wars waged in the mirror, she said. I don't want to return now to the fortress of my father's house. Take me to your vineyard. Let me meet your mother. Perfume me with basil water. Arrange me on silver dishes, comb me, imprison me in your name, let love kill me.

My love, I fear the silence of your hands.

Had I known you, I would have possessed you, and had you known me, you would have possessed me. But then you and I would not be.

I have passed by many eyes but only got lost in yours.

A small café, that's love.

I love talking to you, even if I have nothing to say.

I will choose from my intimate memories what's fitting: the scent of wrinkled sheets after making love is the scent of grass after rain. — Mahmoud Darwish, from "Dense Fog Over The Bridge," If I Were Another: Poems . Translated by Fady Joudah. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 1 edition, October 27, 2009) Originally published 2009.

How much I love you! How much you are you! and intimidated by his own soul: There is no I now, but she is now in me. No she, but I am in her fragility. How I fear For my dream, lest it see a dream that is not she at The end of this song… — Mahmoud Darwish, from "The Strangers' Walk," Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? , trans. by Mohammad Shaheen ( Hesperus Press, 2014)

There must be a secret. There must be an ongoing secret for love to remain a surprise and a gift.

His heart felt dangerously full, for the first time in years. That dried-up battered organ, suddenly flush with love. It could kill him.