Quotes About Longing

Thank you for listening, he wrote. Dear Beautiful, he wrote. I know I can trust you, he wrote. I think of you all day, he wrote. I wonder how you taste, he wrote. Secret-keeper, he wrote.

She knew that doting on the dream made the pain worse, but she could not stop herself.

All he had to do to make me like him was need me. All he had to do to make Arty like him was drop dead.

When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets," Papa would say, "she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing.

All my dreams of leaving, but beneath them I was afraid to go. I had clung to them, to Rass, yes, even to my grandmother, afraid that if I loosened my fingers an iota, I would find myself once more cold and clean in a forgotten basket.

I ain't got no blood claim on you, and the Lord in Heaven knows I want you to have a good life with your own people. But"—her huge bass voice broke up into little squeaky pieces—"but it's killing me to see you go.

He didn't want to die. He had hardly begun to live.

Honor you? he breathed. Sweetest Erienne, how could I not? You are ever in my thoughts, bending me, plucking at the fibers of my mind. The man inside me trembles whenever you're near, and I groan with agony for the touch of your hand laid upon me in a soft caress.

But the other thing I felt—that no one had ever told me I might—was that as much as I loved him, I could never be totally sure that I wanted him around forever. I did not know if my life was categorically "better" for having him here.

I want to be your wife, your lover, your mate for life. I want to feel you inside me, to be one with you, to bear your children, to possess you as you possess me, to touch you as often as I wish, and to feel you quicken in my grasp. I need you... most desperately.

He had the terrible feeling that he had just lost something very precious. Something he had never owned but that nevertheless should have belonged to him.

For Twilight, it was like the echo of a song- a song from long ago. He could almost remember some of the words, but had no clue as to where they had come from. There had been a wonderful voice singing it, singing this song just for him. A voice like silk? Satin? Like liquid moonlight, it flowed, it curled around him and suffused him with a glowing warmth.

Silence was like dirt, good dirt. You could dig into it. You could bury stuff in it. She could bury the longing for her mother in this silence.

And yet he could not stop thinking of them. He did not want to stop thinking of them. He would never stop thinking of them.

f you ask me what I want, I'll tell you. I want everything.

Some folks like trains, some folks like ships, I like the way you move you hips All I want is a taste of your lips, boy, All I want is a taste of your lips.

fetch Lori from the airport. If only his

HE MISSED THE WOMAN, missed her more than blue could cover.

Maybe she wanted too many things. To get closer to Nate - but to just stay friends. To make love with him - but keep her heart uninvolved. To stay with him forever - but never commit.

Instead, she got one of the books off her dresser and sat in the eading chair, stretching out her legs and gently resting her feet on he bed. She sat there gazing at Luke's sleeping face for a long ime, then stirred and opened her book. Softly, she murmured, You aren't in my future, Luke. Unless I put you there.

Four thousand years ago, an Egyptian wrote out his despair onto papyrus in the form of a narrative and four short-versed poems. This document, now in the Berlin Museum, is thought by British psychiatrist Chris Thomas to be the first suicide note [...] Death is before me today As a man longs to see his house When he has spent years in captivity.

There is, for me, a mixture of longings for an earlier age; this is inevitable, perhaps, in any life, but there is an extra twist of almost painful nostalgia brought about by having lived a life particularly intense in moods. This makes it even harder to leave the past behind, and life, on occasion, becomes a kind of elegy for lost moods.

here is, for me, a mixture of longings for an earlier age; this is inevitable, perhaps, in any life, but there is an extra twist of almost painful nostalgia brought about by having lived a life particularly intense in moods. This makes it even harder to leave the past behind, and life, on occasion, becomes a kind of elegy for lost moods.

But then again I wonder if what we feel in our hearts today isn't like these raindrops still falling on us from the soaked leaves above, even though the sky itself long stopped raining. I'm wondering if without our memories, there's nothing for it but for our love to fade and die.