Quotes About Ache

Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.

Imagine a pleasure in which the moment of satisfaction is simultaneous with the moment of destruction: to kiss is to poison; lifting to your lips this face after which you have ached, dreamed, longed for, the face shatters, every time.

So beautiful, it hurts sometime

Hell, a man can lie there and want something so bad and be so full of wanting it he just plain forgets what it is he wants. Just like when you are a boy and the sap first rises and you think you will go crazy some night wanting something and you want it so bad and get so near sick wanting it you near forget what it is.

It's so beautiful that it hurts me,' said Anne softly. 'Perfect things like that always did hurt me — I remember I called it the queer ache when I was a child. What is the reason that pain like this seems inseparable from perfection? Is it the pain of finality — when we realise that there can be nothing beyond but retrogression?' 'Perhaps,' said Owen dreamily, 'it is the prisoned infinite in us calling out to its kindred infinite as expressed in that visible perfection.

The whitewashed walls were so painfully bare and staring that she thought they must ache over their own bareness.

Loneliness is like ice. After you've been lonely long enough you don't even realize you're cold, but you are.

The ache starts in my chest and spreads through my veins. The abuse I can handle; it's the happiness that cripples.

BaÅŸka bir sidhenin dokunuÅŸunu ne kadar özlediÄŸimi biliyordum ama o ana kadar fark etmemiÅŸtim. EÄŸer diÄŸer odada Griffin olsayd?, ona giderdim. Sabah kalbine bir b?çak saplayabilirdim ama bu gece, ona giderdim. sy.98

He went on, hurting her, torturing her. And then a very strange thing happened. Very strange. So strange she didn't understand it at first. So strange she couldn't think about it, couldn't even realize what it was. All she could do was react. The fire in her breasts and loins turned from pain to pleasure. The ache that dominated her entire being became an ache that craved immediate satisfaction. She didn't want to escape, not any more.

A slightly more conscious awareness of writing as compensation may lend us energy to acknowledge our unrequited ache for more visceral forms of contact.

She would have given anything, any number of days of her life, just to hear Sarah call her "Little Miss Shoe.

Please, don't go. It's lonely. There's a hole in my head as big as the world and it's so very lonely...

When you love someone that much and that person is away from you, sometimes it literally feels like you can't breathe, as if your body is aching for air. And then that person walks into the room, and all that ache inside of you, all that longing, dissolves and you feel yourself breathe again. But it's as if he takes the same breath with you. You're both one.

Our bones only ache while the flesh is on them. Stretch it thin as the temple flesh of an ailing woman and still it serves to ache the bone and to move the bone about; and in like manner the night is a skin pulled over the head of day that the day may be in a torment. We will find no comfort until the night melts away; until the fury of the night rots out its fire.

All my life, my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name.

God, why do I have to be a person who yearns so much?

I thought I knew what heartbreak felt like. I thought heartbreak was me, standing alone at the prom. That was nothing. This, this was heartbreak. The pain in your chest, the ache behind your eyes. The knowing that things will never be the same again. It's all relative, I suppose. You think you know love, you think you know real pain, but you don't. You don't know anything.

I feel a sense of yearning for the man I may never get to meet.

In our culture anyway, especially in modern times, the heroic seems too big for us, or we too small for it. Tell a young man that he is entitled to be a hero and he will blush. We disguise our struggle by piling up figures in a bank book to reflect privately our sense of heroic worth. Or by having only a little better home in the neighborhood, a bigger car, brighter children. But underneath throbs the ache of cosmic specialness, no matter how we mask it in concerns of smaller scope.

You have that pleasant air of a dog in heat.

Missing someone feels like hunger. An insatiable emptiness right at the core of yourself.

Every exchange making him feel like an idiot, making him draw his spine up straight and making him fiddle with his hair, and all he wanted to do was to see her naked on the floor. Not brutal, not unkind, enraptured.

I don't want to need you, 'cause I can't have you.