Quotes About Longing

Comprendéis ahora por qué no me gustan las despedidas? Porque siempre son mucho más cortas de lo que uno desearía. Humillantemente cortas algunas veces.

Y había sido un joven tan extraordinario que, desde el mismo instante en que sus ojos, claros y brillantes como un cristal de nieve, se habían cruzado con los de ella, años atrás, la habían condenado a no poder amar jamás a ningún otro hombre.

Tan fuerte que parece que no puedes respirar. Tan intenso que deseas estar siempre con esa persona y no separarte de ella nunca más

Una vez te dije que no me perteneces. Puedes hacer con tu vida y con tus sentimientos lo que te plazca y jamás te exigiré que te ates a mí. Pero en el fondo de tu alma, hay algo que sí es enteramente mío. Y regresaré para buscarlo...mientras siga allí. [...] El día que dejes de amarme desapareceré de tu vida, pero mientras siga viendo ese sentimiento en tus ojos cuando me miras volveré a buscar aquello que es mío y me pertenece solamente a mí.

She'd envisioned her next meeting with him countless times, and every vision was the same: Alex would be somewhere—preferably at a bar surrounded by men—looking sexy, but uninterested. Troy would be there, too, looking tortured and desperate to win her back.

Then, together, they passed through the camp gate and marched up the road, toward wives and sweethearts and children and Mom and Dad and home.

Gabriel Squeezed His Eyes Shut. In the distance He Heard shay Screaming His Nam. What Had he done.? The answer Slammed Into His Mind. He Had Fallen in Love with Her. It had Clouded His Judgment. He LOVED Her, HEART, SOUL, And BODY. And He Had Sentenced Her To Death.

And all the embezzled cents and dollars of the last time I saw you.

Still, for sixteen years I saw the way he passed the butter dish across the dining room table to her, as if he wished it could be more, as if he wished she could life the lid and precious gems would spill over her dinner, as if that might finally make her happy- an inedible, improvident gift, like easy, unexpected laughter.

I was there, where the pale words, like light on a wave. Where the forgotten music was still played. The lovers, gone. Their beds unmade.

Fragrant, dreaming, unreal, and having to do, terribly, with love.

And this last second or two of dreaming in which your face returns to me completely. Not even needing to be, being so alive again to me.

My eyes closed, hands open, Take it, take it . Then, every day wasted chasing it.

Maybe I stepped into the skin my mother left behind, and became the girl my mother had been, the one she still wanted to be. Maybe I was wearing her youth now like an airy scarf, an accessory, all bright nerves and sticky pearls, and maybe that's why she spent so much time staring at me with that wistful look in her eyes. I was wearing something of hers, something she wanted back. It was written all over her face.

Its been six weeks," he murmured. "Six weeks I've wanted you. I know how you move, and how the sunlight makes a shadow on the curve of your cheek, and the shape of your ear." He chucked harshly then turned his head on the pillow to look at her. "I'm dying," he said. He dropped his fist against his chest. "Right here, you're killing me.

He walked to Brooks's, intending to drink a glass of port, eat a joint of beef, and read the Times. But even at his club, surrounded by all the trappings of the honorable British gentleman, he still longed for the forbidden fruit; he still hungered for the hot, sweet kisses of an Italian girl.

He could feel the only woman he had ever wanted slipping away for the third time, and he knew that this time, the pain of losing her would annihilate her.

It's time love," he murmured, nuzzling her throat, kissing her ear. "I've waited so long. I can't wait any longer have you.

When she turned at the sound of his calling her name, he felt the world tilt a little sideways, and he knew that even if a decade passed before he saw her again, he would still remember every detail of her face—the exact blue of her eyes and the luminous glow of her skin and the delicate arch of her brow. Worse, he suspected he'd still feel the same sensations a decade from now—a dry throat, a pounding heart, and an inability to say a single word.

There was fear, of course. That was always with her, something she'd accepted and learned to live with a long time ago. But, right beside it, other emotions were pushing up, fighting for space and light and air. Things like excitement and desire, longing and hope. Agony and uncertainty. Things that made fear seem almost comfortable, like broken-in pair of leather shoes or a perfectly fitted glove. Fear, at least, was familiar.

You long to jump off, but you just can't work up the nerve, so you tell yourself you're content to look at the view.

Ten years. Ten years. Rachel missed her father every day. Not consciously, but his absence was a part of her, like a vine that wraps around a structure, sustains it even as it weakens it.

Esskay rested her head on Tess's knee, gazing into her eyes in the soulful way that meant "Pet me," unless there was food handy, in which case it translated to "Feed me.

The first kiss was at once passionate and chaste, a kiss that contained everything that was to mark their future together—his aching need for her, the slightest sense of reserve on her part, as if she would always hold back a piece of herself. Their last kiss contained their entire history.