Quotes About Yearning

It's hard to explain how you can miss a place and want it with all your heart, and be utterly sure it will obliterate you the instant you touch down.

If it had been July, my heart already would have cracked for the beauty. As it was, I might die of loneliness.

E' uno strano dolore. Morire di nostalgia per qualcosa che non vivrai mai.

?udna je to bol.Umirati od žudnje za ne?im što nikada ne?eš doživjeti

She was sitting at a table in a cafe and he had just left. What she has understood, with absolute certainty, was that to live without him would be, forever, her fundamental occupation and that from that moment on things would always have a shadow for her, an extra shadow, even in the dark, and maybe especially in the dark. She wondered if that might work as an explanation of what it means to be mad about someone.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light; I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

I could feel her soft shape, the heat of her, conducted with electric clarity through the wet of our clothes. I felt my body responding. I knew she felt it, too. Ah, shit.

There was a time when I didn't seem to need such things, when I would have been amused and perhaps even vaguely disgusted at the notion of living like some sort of psychic vampire, a lingering revenant pressed up against one-way glass, looking with forlorn and futile eyes at the ordinary life fate had denied him.

It was always a sad pleasure, like making love to a beautiful woman, but not to the woman you love.

He smiled. "What's going on?" "Why does something have to be going on? Maybe I just missed you." He gave me an uncharacteristically streetwise look. I had a feeling I knew where he'd picked it up. "Yeah, I missed you, too." I wasn't looking forward to the turn the conversation would take when I brought up Yukiko, and felt no hurry to get there. A waitress came by. Harry ordered a coffee and some carrot cake.

The room was large, and largely empty. The pace would pick up later in the evening. For now, the action comprised just a few lonely souls. They seemed lost in the expanse of the room, their play joyless, desultory, as though they'd been looking for a livelier party and found themselves stuck with this one instead.

Why are the most painful memories also the sweetest; why does the sweetness always draw us back no matter how long the pain might have kept us away beforehand? I don't know

Why are the most painful memories also the sweetest; why does the sweetness always draw us back no matter how long the pain might have kept us away beforehand?

It came to him, the very picture: he was unshucked oyster, hurtling on the winds, all air, gonad and gut. Chances seemed in a loud hurry around him, but he could do nothing--nothing-- about them. Mestre yearned to be driven by some grand circumstance. Everything in his existence was too slack.

It came to him, the very picture: he was an unshucked oyster, hurtling on the winds, all air, gonad and gut. Chances seemed in a loud hurry around him, but he could do nothing--nothing-- about them. Mestre yearned to be driven by some grand circumstance. Everything in his existence was too slack

Fulfillement is a precipitation

For me enough means not enough

Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?

How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.

Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto

Homesickness is a real sickness—the ache of the uprooted plant.

He had stopped drinking, but the need to be free had been just as great...

Want to see the rock? Want to lay on it naked, and feel me in you, beneath the pinwheel stars, while the grass sings our names?

Love me. My head is so bad tonight. Love me. Love me.