Quotes About Loss

I know you lost your partner in crime, but...I want YOU to be MINE. Maybe WE should travel the world together, Camryn...I know I can't replace your ex--" "Andrew...it was always you.

Do i really want him dead? What i want... what i want is to have him back.

You are alone when something like this happens. Doesn't matter how many people love you and want to help you. You are alone. When Marchent died, she was alone.

It's a very difficult age when the forces of time want to destroy us and take us away. They're just snatching people like devils; death comes and grabs each of us.

I lost my dad. He lost his tomorrows and I lost all the tomorrows with him. You could say that now, I appreciate them when they come. Now, I want to make them the best they can possibly be.

Every day I wake up, I say, 'Damn, I hope I don't get that call today.' I don't want to lose my mama. When I start thinking about that, I fall into a hole.

What would you do if I died? If you died I would want to die too. So you could be with me? Yes. So I could be with you. Okay.

I think we'll always miss our parents. But I think we can miss them without being miserable all the time. After all, they wouldn't want us to be miserable.

Then teach me how to not care about someone who was everything to me. All I want is to know she's okay. Is that too much to ask?

The soul knows no greater anguish than to take a breath that begins in love and ends with grief.

It was the last time I stood beside my brother, the last time he held my flank and I his. For a time, then . . .'and his voice fell away, 'we were happy.' Though Torrent knew nothing of these Wars of Shadow, nor the other players involved, he could not but hear the sorrow in Ruin's voice, and it stung him deep inside. Fucking regrets.

There is no point in honoring the dead. I have seen too much to believe otherwise. Grieve for lost potential, the end of possibilities, the eternally silence demise of promise. Grieve for that, Fear Sengar, and you will understand, finally, how grief is but a mirror, held close to one's own face.

To grieve is the gift of the living – a gift so many of our kin have long lost.

Worse, this vast sense of loss … without the ability to trust – anyone. Without that, what do I see in the life awaiting me? Naught but solitude, and thus, nothing of value.

My arms wrapped about little Jala, little sister, hot with fever but the fire grew too hot, and so, in my arms, her flesh cooled to dawn-stone, mother keening—Jala was the ember now lifeless, and from that day, in mother's eyes, I became naught but its bed of ash.

We each fashion our "others" and chart the course of our lives as that eternal campaign, seasons of gain, seasons of loss. Battles and wounds and triumphs and bitter defeats. In comforts we fashion our strongholds. In convictions we occupy our fortifications. In violence we forge our peace. In peace, we win desolation.

They died, Highness, even as they delivered those thirty thousand refugees to safety. They died, but they won.

People will grieve. For the dead, for the living For the loss of innocence and for the surrender of innocence, which are two entirely different things. We will grieve, for choices made and not made, for the mistakes of the heart which can never be undone, for the severed nerve-endings of old scars and those to come.

Sacrifice must be weighed by the pain of what is surrendered, and this alone was the true measure of a virtue's worth.

I see now that the unnamed soldier is a gift. The named soldier—dead, melted wax—demands a response among the living…a response no one can make. Names are no comfort, they're a call to answer the unanswerable. Why did she die, not him? Why do the survivors remain anonymous—as if cursed—while the dead are revered? Why do we cling to what we lose while we ignore what we still hold?

She was glad she'd missed the river of corpses that must have filled the city streets during the initial phase of clean-up - wagon after wagon groaning beneath the weight of crushed bodies, white flesh seared by fire and slashed by sword, rat-gnawed and raven-pecked - men, women, and children.

His old name was on the toll of the fallen, after all, and beside it was Blackdog Wood, 1159 Burn's Sleep.

Planning to reach this point was one thing; having now reached it was another. He hadn't considered how he'd feel. Justice got in the way of that, a white fire he'd had no reason to look behind, or push aside. Justice had seduced him and he wondered what he had just lost, he wondered at the death he felt spreading within him. The regret following in that death's wake, so unanswerable it was, threatened to overwhelm him.

His dying shriek rose skyward.