Quotes About Yearning

We had everything to say to each other, but no ways to say it.

We looked at each other until it felt like everything would burst into flames

It's the tragedy of loving, you can't love anything more than something you miss.

Yesterday I wanted to turn inside out.

This is love, she thought, isn't it? When you notice someone's absence and hate that absence more than anything? More, even, than you love his presence?

he was leaving me. I wondered if I should stop him. If I should wrestle him to the ground and force him to love me. I wanted to hold his shoulders down and shout into his face.

No, I do not like music. (But what she really was trying to say was this: I like music better than anything in the world, after you.)

I can only hold on to the things I want to lose.

They do not desire anything more than everything they have known.

Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches. My fingers against his shoulder. The outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn't explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love? Why does anyone ever make love?

I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness. We made love in nothing places and turned the lights off. It felt like crying. We could not look at each other. It always had to be from behind. Like that first time. And I knew he wasn't thinking of me. He squeezed my sides so hard, and pushed so hard. Like he was trying to push me through to somewhere else. Why does anyone ever make love?

She was so beautiful, like someone who you will never meet, but always dream of meeting, like someone who is too good for you.

In the end I was the clay and she was the sculptor, I thought, it's a shame that we have to live, but it's a tragedy that we get to live only one life, because if I'd had two lives, I would have spent one of them with her.

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to shout myself into his ear.

I dreamt four nights ago of clock hands descending from the universe like rain, of the moon as a green eye, of mirrors and insects, of a love that never withdrew. It was not the feeling of completeness that I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.

I have been waiting for you for so long." I pointed to the car. "We are searching for Trachimbrod." "Oh," she said and she released a river of tears. "You are here. I am it.

It's a shame that we have to live, but it's a tragedy that we get to live only one life, because if I'd had two lives, I would have spent one of them with her.

It was inevitable: Yankel fell in love with his never-wife. He would wake from sleep to miss the weight that never depressed the bed next to him, remember in earnest the weight of gestures she never made, long for the un-weight of her un-arm slung over his too-real chest, making his widower's rememberences that much more convincing and his pain that much more real.

We just stood there, facing each other, but nine floors apart.

She felt as if she were brimming, always producing and hoarding more love inside her. But there was no release.

It was the feeling of not wanting to live in the world, even if it was the only place to live.

I wanted to build walls around him, I wanted to separate inside from outside, I wanted to give him an infinitely long blank book and the rest of time.

I couldn't explain my need to myself, and that's why it was such a beautiful need

I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.