Quotes About Yearning

Not willing to deny himself a modest sample of the shattering excess, he spun her and propped her against the bedpost. Her thighs were spread wide and, though many layers of fabric separated them, his cock was wedged against her mound, her searing heat coaxing him, urging him on and in. Matching the thrust of his tongue, he flexed against her, slowly and meticulously, letting her savor his aroused condition, allowing her to distinguish his decadent invitation.

Not willing to deny himself a modest sample of the shattering excess, he sun her and propped her agains the bedpost. Her thighs were spread wide and, though many layers of fabric separated them, his cock was wedged against her mound, her searing heat coaxing him, urging him on and in. Matching the thrust of his tongue, he flexed against her, slowly and meticulously, letting her savor his aroused condition, allowing her to distinguish his decadent invitation.

He needed Sarah's sweet courtesy, was desperate to suffer through her virginal oohs and aahs, to bask in her fascination. The feel of her smooth hands, with those slender, questing fingers roving over him, was like a healing salve to his battered body and spirit. She amused herself with his chest, rifling through the springy hair, exploring the ridges and valleys until her maneuvers felt as natural as breathing, as though she'd touched him just so a hundred times before.

Her breathing hitched. Too much was happening too fast. The wanton episode was so inconceivable that it played out like a fantasy---except that he was really present, arousing and addictive. Her mind wailed for her to call a halt, but her body wouldn't obey. 'I'd planned to have you on your bed the first time"---his assertion brushed against her ear---"but maybe I should take you here, by the mirror, so you can see how splendid we are together.

Can't You get just ONE GUY to love me? You know this is the position I have been in my entire life. Unloved. Unknown. Not chosen.

I'm so sick of my life. The chapter I want doesn't get written. I'm always stuck in the "wait" chapter.

Wanting to leave is enough.

Being with him felt unbearable, but being with anyone else did too.

We all love X but want to fuck Z. Z is so gleaming, so crystalline, so unlikely to bitch at you for neglecting to take out the recycling. Nobody has to haggle with Z. Z doesn't wear a watch. Z is like a motorcycle with no one on it. Beautiful. Going nowhere.

To witness the way they leaned into each other and laced their fingers together and tugged each other tenderly down the paved path was almost unbearable. I was simultaneously sickened by it and envious of what they had. Their existence seemed proof that I would never succeed at romantic love.

I was a pebble. I was a leave. I was the jagged branch of a tree. I was nothing to them and they were everything to me.

I'd reached the point where if a character in one of the novels I was reading happened to be eating, I had to skip over the scene because it simply hurt too much to read about what I wanted and couldn't have. I

My prayer was different now: A year, a year, a year. Those two words beat like a heart in my chest.

For whatever it is that is less than mercy; for what we don't even have a word for. Those were the worst days, I believed at the time, and yet the moment she died I'd have given anything to have them back. One small, horrible, glorious day after the other.

But the thing was, I didn't want it. Maybe I never really had. I'd finally come to understand what it had been: a yearning for a way out, when actually what I had wanted to find was a way in. I was there now. Or close.

It had been an indisputably good time, but now I felt empty. Like there was something I didn't even know I wanted until I didn't get it.

I'd finally come to understand what it had been: a yearning for a way out, when actually what I had wanted to find was a way in. I was there now. Or close.

all the women who wanted to be hobos were holed up in some house with a gaggle of children to raise. Children who'd been fathered by hobo men who'd hit the road.

Of course, heroin could be had there too, I thought. But the thing was, I didn't want it. Maybe I never really had. I'd finally come to understand what it had been: a yearning for a way out, when actually what I had wanted to find was a way in. I was there now. Or close.O

I stopped at the door where the racks of Snapples were kept. I put my hand to the glass near the bottles of lemonade—there was both yellow and pink. They were like diamonds or pornography. I could look, but I couldn't touch.

Every evening, I ached for the shelter of my tent, for the smallest sense that something was shielding me from the entire rest of the world, keeping me safe not from danger, but from the vastness itself.

Each of Dermoût's sentences came at me like a soft knowing dagger, depicting a far-off land that felt to me like the blood of all the places I used to love.

We are all savages inside. We all want to be the chosen, the beloved, the esteemed.

fountains of inconvenient feeling—and toward the frantic enticements of