Quotes About Heartache

Again and again, I pushed my memories away. There were days when it was easy and days when it was hard. My love ... was a boulder in my heart. I sought to let go of it and let it sink. Let it sink below the surface, carrying my heart with it. Let it come to rest on the stream's bottom, a vast hidden bulwark, dividing the current. Let it stay there, hidden and unseen. Forgotten. Betimes it worked. Betimes it didn't. It was the best I could do.

Quando l'Amore mi ha scacciata, è stata la Crudeltà ad avere pietà di me.

but oh, by all the fallen stars, it hurt!

Thou art the shoals on which Caliban wilt dash his heart to pieces.

The pain of the flesh is naught to that of the heart.

People don't realize how desolate you feel. How this ache never goes; it's like a weight in the middle of the body, a bad ache in the gut every single day. And the thing is, it's not simply a case of missing a person--it's missing everything that came with that person.

Somebody, said Jacques, your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour - and in the oddest places! - for the lack of it.

It was a gesture of great despair and I knew that she was giving herself, not to me, but to that lover who would never come.

not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour… – for the lack of it.

The first love disappears, but never goes. That ache becomes reconciliation.

your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour—and in the oddest places!—for the lack of it.

the sorrow of the disconnected.

Somebody,' said Jacques, 'your father or mind, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour —and in the oddest places!—for the lack of it

Somebody," said Jacques, "your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour—and in the oddest places!—for the lack of it.

Somebody,' [...] should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour [...] for the lack of it.

We're going to be out by Christmas.' And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. Then they'd say, 'We're going to be out by Easter.' And Easter would come, and Easter would go. And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. And they died of a broken heart.

One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.

Memory is a mirage that fools the heart . . .

You know it's the most hurtful feeling to be totally in love with someone you can't be with.

I miss everything. I miss talking to her, hearing about her day. I miss her voice all gravelly and smoky, I miss hearing her laugh, I miss getting her letters, writing her letters. I miss her eyes, and the smell of her hair, and the way her breath tasted. I fucking miss everything. I miss knowing she was around, because it helped me to know that she was around, someone like her existed. I guess most of all, I miss knowing I would see her again. I always thought I'd see her again.

Love only brought me lonliness and horror.

I always felt I had a hole in my heart, this big black hole that made me feel lonely and empty and worthless. I tried to fill it, everybody tries in some way, and it just got bigger and bigger.

I miss everything. I miss talking to her, hearing about her day. I miss her voice all gravelly and smoky, I miss hearing her laugh, I miss getting her letters, writing her letters. I miss her eyes, and the smell of her hair, and the way her breath tasted. I fucking miss everything.

Part of me still loves. More of me doesn't.