Quotes About Longing

He doesn't visit me in dreams, but the smell of garlic on my fingers reminds me of him and, by extension, he loss of him. Sulfurous, maybe a little shameful, the smell reminds me of love.

We ache with the yearning that turns half into whole and offer no excuses for the beauty of our souls.

Yet a cruel world too often injures my feelings, by wondering how a person, possessed of domestic attachments, can sacrifice them by absenting himself for years.

I look back to the early days of our acquaintance and friendship, as to the days of love and innocence, and, with an indescribable pleasure, I have seen near a score of years roll over our heads, with an affection heightened and improved by time; nor have the dreary years of absence in the smallest degree effaced from my mind the image of the dear, untitled man to whom I gave my heart.

You had a certain way of saying my name. It was the inflection maybe, something you put into those three syllables. And now you are gone and my name is just my name again, not the story of my life.

Behold! The brook is murmuring and murmuring, but I know not of what. My heart is yearning and yearning, and I know not of what. I cherish the murmur of the brook. I cherish the pang of my lonely heart." The

A mighty pain to love it is,And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;But of all pains, the greatest painIt is to love, but love in vain.

A mighty pain to love it is, and 'tis a pain that pain to miss but of all the pains, the greatest pain is to love, but love in vain.

I was angry with myself because I still loved her, or at least I loved that dream of our togetherness. My feelings were unreasonable, irrational, and I couldn't change them. That hurt.

As a child I'd longed for Thomas Stone or at least the idea of him. So many mornings I waited for him at the gates of Missing. I saw that vigil now as necessary, a prerequisite for my insides to harden and cure just like the willow of a cricket bat must cure to be ready for a lifetime of knocks. That was the lesson at Missing's gates: the world does not owe you and neither does your father.

You see, young Dr. Marion, that's what makes us human. We always want more.

And if beauty is in the ephemeral, what about the beautiful things you can't have? Perhaps that kind of beauty does last forever.

And as for my father? No, he wouldn't ever walk through those gates; I now knew that. Whatever Thomas Stone had, wherever he was at this moment, he had no idea what he'd given up in the exchange.

Tizitash zeweter wode ene eye metah. I can't help thinking about you.

It was called "Tizita"; there was no single equivalent English word. Tizita meant "memory tinged with regret." Was there any other kind, Ghosh wondered.

and I never knew survival was like that. If you live, you look back and beg for it again, the hazardous bliss before you know what you would miss.

If you live, you look back and beg for it again, the hazardous bliss before you know what you would miss.

I wanted to be a hummingbird. It made sense to long for rapid wings and the ability to hover always— to be Huitzilopochtli taming my snakes. Sometimes though, the thought exhausts me and I want to be a slow horse, a tennis shoe.

You're the muscle I cut from the bone and still the bone remembers, still it wants (so much, it wants) the flesh back, the real thing, if only to rail against it, if only to argue and fight, if only to miss a solve-able absence.

Sometimes, you just want something so hard you have to lie about it, so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute, how real hunger has a real taste

I slip into bed and lie there beside Your body like a buoy that the ocean resents. If I could just grab hold and find a way to paddle, If you could stop dragging your feet along the gravel. As a child I remember knowing how to float When sober was the wind and my body, the boat. Now each step is anchored and you continue to drift In the room where we pretend that we are alive, Where you and I commit the sin, and you and I forgive.

How strange this silent longing for death, as if you could make the sun not come up, the world's wheeling and wheeling its seasons like a cruel continuation of stubborn force.

There is a solitude in this world I cannot pierce. I would die for it.

I'll never see you again, but that's a note I tear up in my mind.