Quotes About Yearning

He knelt and slowly ran his hand down my arm, his lids heavy and his lips parted. "Aura . . . where can I touch you?" "Anywhere." His hand left my arm and drifted to the rise of my hip bone. "And where can I kiss you?" I took a deep breath, long past ready for the future. "Everywhere.

Okay." The boy placed his hands on the table. "The thing is … I died before I got to see real live tits. Not just on the Internet." He hurried to add, "I wouldn't touch you or nothing. Obviously. But even if I could, I wouldn't do that to you." He looked at his hands as he dropped them into his lap. "I just want to see.

Shane closes his eyes and groans deep in his throat, a noise that embodies sex and death. His back arches, and his fingers rake the carpet as if to pull it up like grass.

But in the depth of Zachary's weary, determined eyes, I saw more than a desperate longing. I saw a future.

It is perhaps not as self-evident as our desire for happiness, but it is nearly as obvious that normal human beings have a deep yearning to love and to be loved. The countless love songs that pervade our culture, as well as the love poems and songs from centuries past, are eloquent testimony to the human longing for love.

You occupied my space. But because you were not in my present, when I looked into my future I saw . . . nothing. Isn't that sad? And stupid?

A tiny butter knife slices more skin off my heart every time I think about her.

I wasn't sad after my father kissed the streetcar. If anything, it was a relief. Much as I missed him, his dying gave me an excuse to feel the way I already felt. Which was the way I felt right now, under the laundry room fluorescents: hollow, pissed off, wanting to be wherever I wasn't. Until I got there. Then I wanted to be somewhere else.

Still... I would have hugged my mother if we were the kind of family who hugged. If touching her weren't impossible. If her subnightie waft was not so utterly, fatally repulsive. That's how much I loved her.

We weren't touching, but my skin could feel her skin buzzing.

A waft of sweet hash drifted by, and I wanted to float after it like Wimpy levitating at the scent of a hamburger.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost count those soft hairs on the back of her neck. One day I'd even leaned forward, pretending to drop my pencil, and inhaled her until the top of my head started to steam. A scent of butterscotch wafted off of her, and it was all I could do not to plunge my face into her shag.

There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return.

Had it been possible for me to fix the plane permanently in the sky, to defy the winds and clouds and all the forces pushing it upward and pulling it earthward, I would have willingly done so. I would have stayed in my seat with my eyes closed, all strength and passion gone, my mind as quiescent as a coat rack under a forgotten hat, and I would have remained there, timeless, unmeasured, unjudged, bothering no one, suspended forever between my past and my future.

El peñasco árido, donde siempre elevo sus cometas, lo esperaba ansiosamente cada año, hasta que Martín olvidó volver.

No puedo olvidarla» se repite con un susurro apagado, sujetando la cara entre sus manos, tratando de sepultar el pasado.

Veo a los lejos, el árbol de eucalipto, donde algún día ya olvidado, bese a la mujer que me enamoró por primera vez, y con la que mi cuerpo, tuvo la primera explosión volcánica, y a quién jamás vi o conocí personalmente, sino es, por la vieja foto de almanaque.

Maybe you could be mine / or maybe we'll be entwined / aimless in this sexless foreplay.

But, don't you—" she began, than cut herself off as heat flooded her cheeks. "Want to fill your body with mine and make you scream?

Who isn't crazy sometimes? Who hasn't driven around a block hoping a certain person will come out; who hasn't haunted a certain coffee shop, or stared obsessively at an old picture; who hasn't toiled over every word in a letter, taken four hours to write a two-sentence email, watched the phone praying it will ring; who doesn't lay awake at night sick with the image of her sleeping with someone else?

Somehow we are all seeking some appropriate burden. Until we find it we are horribly shackled, can in fact scarcely live.

Sadness is a feeling of loss. There is something one wanted, and one doesn't have it—or there is a way one wanted things to be, and things aren't that way. That is sadness. Instead, you feel rootlessness.

But, if life is just that, just being reasonable, then there is nothing in it--nothing worthwhile. So, the yearning that we have to keep dead things living--or to make unreasonable things reasonable. That is why a person should live.

there is also an underlying, less specific fear - what some might call an ontological or existential anxiety - that shrouds our days and seeps into our dreams. We feel empty and seek meaning. We feel empty and seek meaning. We yearn and know not what we yearn for. There is a black hole at the center of our understanding that engulfs and crushes our every attempt to explore it. Something is missing.