first-love

I can tell you this: there will be other girls, other disasters. And there will be nights to come, his life mostly behind him, when he will long to hurt like that again.

But in that moment, I didn__ want to be trusted. I wanted something far more primal. I stretched up on my tiptoes and leaned in. I closed my eyes as his scent overcame me. When his lips touched mine it felt as if he__ caressed them with a feather. It was all I could do not to wrap myself around him and do things I__ never really thought about doing before.

I haven__ had the chance to look at too many men__ faces up close. And I noticed how his skin was thicker than mine, and a gorgeous shade of toast. The stiff blond hairs on his cheeks and chin seemed to be growing before my eyes. He smelled like starch. Like pine. His nose wasn__ so pointy afterall. _And out of the blue, he kissed me. Right in the middle of the Robert E. Lee Hotel Restaurant, he kissed me so slowly with an open mouth and every single thing in my body-my skin, my collarbone, the hollow backs of my knees, everything inside of me filled up with light.

Don't be afraid to take the first step and speak from your heart.

Because I want to know if I'm allowed to kiss your tears away. Because I want to be able to hold your hand. Because I like you.

I loved everything about her, and I didn't care how dark she got. If anything it was what I loved the most, the veil of pain that fell across her face most of the day, and all of the night.

It seemed everyone knew their place in it, but I was in the mood where I would rather be alone and look a houseplants.

Never dreaming, was I, poor Jack Duluoz, that the soul is dead. That from Heaven grace descends . . . No Doctor Pisspot Poorpail to tell me; no example inside my first and only skin. That love is the heritage, and cousin to death. That the only love can only be the first love, the only death the last, the only life within, and the only word . . . choked forever.

I stand, and wait among the sea foam. I swim in my own tears-I sing without my voice. I do not reach for higher ground, because I have lapped in the churning waters.

In the morning, that moment, when I knew it was you. When I could feel you breathing and we opened our eyes at the exact same time.

This was the kind of guy who should be someone's first love. Someone who brought you flowers and refilled your water glass without your having to ask. Someone who watched you across the crowded rooms just to make sure you were okay. Someone who loved you quietly from a distance, without pressuring you or wanting you to change.

Your first love isn't the first person you give your heart to- it's the first one who beaks it.

A man is lucky if he is the first love of a woman. A woman is lucky if she is the last love of a man.

He reflects on all the times he thought she wasn__ sure of her feelings for him, when perhaps she might__e been taking a leisurely stroll across Elijah__ heart, leaving footprints behind that he__ never seen.

Love has always been the chief business of my life, the only thing I have thought__o, felt__upremely worth while, and I don__ pretend that this experience was not succeeded by others. But at that time, I was innocent, with the innocence of ignorance, I didn__ know what was happening to me. I was without consciousness, that is to say, more utterly absorbed than was ever possible again. For after that first time there was always part of me standing aside, comparing, analysing, objecting: __s this real? Is this sincere?_ All the world of my predecessors was there before me, taking, as it were, the bread out of my mouth. Was this stab in my heart, this rapture, really mine or had I merely read about it? For every feeling, every vicissitude of my passion, there would spring into my mind a quotation from the poets. Shakespeare or Donne or Heine had the exact phrase for it. Comforting, perhaps, but enraging too. Nothing ever seemed spontaneously my own. As the blood dripped from the wound, there was always part of me to watch with a smile and a sneer: __iterature! Mere literature! Nothing to make a fuss about!_ And then I would add, __ut so Mercutio jested as he died!

You say how much I love you, "I never let my mind interfere when I'm with you", isn't it enough sign of how much I trust and love you...my dear!

First impression is not the last reflection of a true friend, so if you are head over heels for someone who just bought you a cake, you'd better think twice before devouring your misery.

He smiles at me, and I am suddenly seventeen again - the year I realize that love doesn't follow the rules, the year I understood that nothing is worth having so much as something unattainable