emotional

You__e the mayfly,' he murmurs. And then Evan Walker kisses me. Holding my hand across his chest, his other hand sliding across my neck, his touch feathery soft, sending a shiver that travels down my spine into my legs, which are having a hard time keeping me upright. I can feel his heart slamming against my palm and I can smell his breath and feel the stubble on his upper lip, a sandpapery contrast to the softness of his lips, and Evan is looking at me and I__ looking back at him.

Distraction leaches the authenticity out of our communications. When we are not emotionally present, we are gliding over the surface of our interactions and we never tangle in the depths where the nuances of our skills are tested and refined.

You know what truly aches? Having so much inside you and not having the slightest clue of how to pour it out.

Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip, for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in.

When love becomes a play of squirming mindgames or a tinderbox of mental conflicts, emotional benchmarks need an unremitting reset. ("Another empty room")

You gotta stand up and walk, Gem,_ he said quietly, turning his back on them. __ou have to walk out of here. Not just for them, but for yourself. Come on. You have to walk out of here on your own two feet.__o I did.

Once the dust of volcanic love has settled and the harshness of a new reality has become oppressive, disillusionment may have to be mended, wounds to be healed and emotional fallouts to be taken care of, mindfully ( "Is that all there is ?")

I love you, Julie. I loved you that first moment when I looked across the restauraunt and found you. Then you were the loveliest thing I'd ever seen; but now I've discovered how much more you are; loyal and courageous and as true as steel. There's laughter in you and a capacity to love. Julie, Julie, could you learn to love me?

Our first stage of existence is truly honored by the magnificent view of our destination.

The boy was painted in his pain

Why don't you ever wait a second and see what I'm planning, or thinking, before you burst in with your opinions and ideas? You never even give me a chance.

I'm afraid my voice is going to break. I am afraid she is going to hear how much this hurts.

More than the sound of my own beating heart, I miss the sound of a ticking clock. Time passes. It must pass....

Don't die on me," she whispered when the clock struck midnight and he still had not moved. "It's only a little shoulder wound. Goddess, George-don't die on me."His eyes flickered open and he smiled. "I didn't know you cared," he whispered. "And why insult me? I won't die for a wee nick like this; I've had worse in my day."Alanna wiped her wet cheeks. "Of course I care, you unprincipled pickpocket!" she whispered. "Of course I care.

Why? What's wrong with being emotional about this? why is that a negative thing? Why isn't the emotional decision the right decision?" asked the woman who wasn't crying.

How can we be so utterly perfect, and you chose the douche who doesn__ have the first clue what he has?

Hey." She said, looking up from an open book propped up on one knee. She brushed a few strands of pale hair out of her face. Her boyfriend, Christian, lay on the floor near her, his head propped up on her other knee. He greeted me by way of a nod. Concidering the antagonism the sometimes flared up between us, that was almost on par with him giving me a bear hug.

I thought you were dead,_ I say. __t almost killed me.___id it?_ His voice is neutral. __ou made a pretty fast recovery.___o. You don__ understand._ My throat is tight; I feel as though I__ being strangled. __ couldn__ keep hoping, and then waking up every day and finding out it wasn__ true, and you were still gone. I__ wasn__ strong enough.__e is quiet for a second. It__ too dark to see his expression: He is standing in shadow again, but I can sense that he is staring at me.Finally he says, __hen they took me to the Crypts, I thought they were going to kill me. They didn__ even bother. They just left me to die. They threw me in a cell and locked the door.___lex._ The strangled feeling has moved from my throat to my chest, and without realizing it, I have begun to cry. I move toward him. I want to run my hands through his hair and kiss his forehead and each of his eyelids and take away the memory of what he has seen. But he steps backward, out of reach.__ didn__ die. I don__ know how. I should have. I__ lost plenty of blood. They were just as surprised as I was. After that it became a kind of game__o see how much I could stand. To see how much they could do to me before I_____e breaks off abruptly. I can__ hear any more; don__ want to know, don__ want it to be true, can__ stand to think of what they did to him there. I take another step forward and reach for his chest and shoulders in the dark. This time, he doesn__ push me away. But he doesn__ embrace me either. He stands there, cold, still, like a statue.__lex._ I repeat his name like a prayer, like a magic spell that will make everything okay again. I run my hands up his chest and to his chin. ____ so sorry. I__ so, so sorry.__uddenly he jerks backward, simultaneously finding my wrists and pulling them down to my sides. __here were days I would rather they have killed me._ He doesn__ drop my wrists; he squeezes them tightly, pinning my arms, keeping me immobilized. His voice is low, urgent, and so full of anger it pains me even more than his grip. __here were days I asked for it__rayed for it when I went to sleep. The belief that I would see you again, that I could find you__he hope for it__as the only thing that kept me going._ He releases me and takes another step backward. __o no. I don__ understand.