Quotes About Yearn

There are indeed all sorts of men/ who visit here: those who want/ nothing but to talk or hear the soft tones/ of a woman's voice; others prefer/ simply to gaze upon me, my face/ turned from them as they touch/ only themselves. And then there are those,/ of course, whose desires I cannot commit/ to paper.

I know that feeling intimately. It's where I live. I eat, sleep, and dream of the void, and whenever it calls my name, I'm there in the front row ready to answer.

Les amants des prostituées Sont heureux, dispos et repus; Quant à moi, mes bras sont rompus Pour avoir étreint des nuées.

I want to be with you. It's as simple, and as complicated as that.

A yet women -good women- frightened me because they eventually wanted your soul, and what was left of mine, I wanted to keep. Basically I craved prostitutes, base women, because they were deadly and hard and made no personal demands. Nothing was lost when they left. Yet at the same time I yearned for a gentle, good woman, despite the overwhelming price.

there is a place in the heart that will never be filled

Anything, anything to stop drowning in this dull, trivial and cowardly existence.

I got the sad sads and all I want to do is fuck you.

There is a blue bird in my heart that wants to get out.

Voglio così tanto che non è quì e che non so dove cercarlo.

she didn't do anything unusual. I only wanted her to.

I found Pete and Selma. Selma looked great. How did one get a Selma? The dogs of this world never ended up with a Selma.

You needed love, but not the kind of love most people used and were used up by.

There is a space in the heart that will never be filled and we will wait and wait in that space.

She didn't do anything unusual. I only wanted her to.

There is a place in the heart that will never be filled and we will wait and wait in that space.

I was lonely all right. I was lonely for that big ass standing beside me.

When all else is lost and gone forever, there is yearning. Only desire trumps time.

The ache for anything is a thick dust in the heart.

Does he lay with you in the grass? Does he stare up at the stars, speaking of his dreams, wishing he could roll over and kiss you and run his fingers along the breasts that tease him beneath the shirt--the shirt he knows he will carry home with him and smell and, God help him, sleep in, just so that he could be close to you?

Pressing his forehead to the cool glass, he held her gaze, her palm, his eyes pleading with her. Don't go. Don't leave me.

The sound of his yearning had no melodic line.

Want is misery.

I think there is a part of life that I'm missing.