Quotes About Intimacy

Even should I wither from lack of food, lack of drink. I would be happy to exist solely on the feel of your lips against mine, I think.

He slowly smiled. 'Good. We'll start with the basics.' Her mind went blank. 'Basics?' 'Of kissing. Most people aren't good at kissing right from the start.' He looked her over. 'Unless you are a natural.' She blinked stupidly. His hand reached up and touched her cheek, gently tilting her head. 'It's like connecting puzzle pieces when you kiss. Or when you do anything else of a sexual nature.' The parts of her brain not already blank blessedly went dark.

Reading a poem in translation is like kissing a woman through a veil.

A simple enough pleasure, surely, to have breakfast alone with one's husband, but how seldom married people in the midst of life achieve it.

This is what one thirsts for, I realize, after the smallness of the day, of work, of details, of intimacy - even of communication, one thirsts for the magnitude and universality of a night full of stars, pouring into one like a fresh tide.

I wish you'd fall in love with me," she said. "Why?" "Because you're really someone worth falling in love with. And if we were in love, I wouldn't be drifting. I wouldn't be nobody. At least not while I was with you.

I watched her peel off the slip, The bra closed in the front like the other. Ah, my teeth clenched seeing her tighten the clasps, breasts gathered like that. The she smoothed the flesh into the cups, lifted each breast, dropped it, her fingers casual, rough. I got hard watching it. Then the panties came up stretched sheer over her pubic hair. I could see the silk seal itself over her secret lips. Little crack. Hair a dark shadow underneath.

She was standing there all right. And I was in love with her. So much for the first glimpse.

You have the thing all men and women strive for: the lover from whom you do not have to hide anything.

Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen....

the man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate…

And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.

Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.

To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.

I don't care, I love you anyhow. It is too late to turn you out of my heart. Part of you lives here.

Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse.

You're the lily and I'm the bee that gets inside.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.