longing

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!

In love, nothing exists between heart and heart.Speech is born out of longing,True description from the real taste.The one who tastes, knows;the one who explains, lies.How can you describe the true form of SomethingIn whose presence you are blotted out?And in whose being you still exist?And who lives as a sign for your journey?

I wish to stay drenchedforeverin those rain-blue eyesin those...soul-reaching crystalsnot moving a musclenor breathingjustsavoringthis turquoise acheagainst my heart.

this heart yearns...for the salt of unsmelt airunswept thunderstorms...unknown adventures.

There is a song in your heart, only you can hear it. In silence, that is the song of longing and love.

We were both smiling, in that bittersweet way one does when imagining something the heart longs for and the head would dread.

I know that touching you will be understanding my fingers for the first time.

I reside in an abode where your thoughts imagine me... You reside in my heart where the auricles camouflage my longing...

And the heart has become so tired, and the longing so vast.

The heartland lies where the heart longs to be. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to find the true place to plant it.

She chased the song like a hound fast upon a scent. She pursued it through a forest primeval: a dark land planted with musical staves and rests and grown thick with briars of annotation. On she went and on still until she caught sight of the song ahead of her, fleeting and sly. __ see it,_ she said aloud, though she didn__ mean to.

She closed her eyes and began to weave a song. She abandoned the familiar melodies she__ played so many times before and went in search of something new, no longer wanting a song fed on pain or guilt. She needed one that could replace those wounds with strength, with resolve, with confidence. She needed a song that could not only assuage, but heal and build anew. The notes stumbled around the room, tripping over beds and empty stools and hollow men sleeping. They warbled and fell, haphazard, chaotic, settling without flight. Fin__ forehead creased and she persisted. She let her fingers wander, reached out with her mind. She chased the fleeting song she__ glimpsed once before. In Madeira she__ felt a hint of it: something wild, untameable, a thing sprung whole and flawless from the instant of creation.

I understood it in my bones. Longing made the music bigger.

...the waiting was torture, the worst Ka had ever known. It was this pain, this deadly wait, he now remembered, that had made him afraid to fall in love.

No matter how great the love, the pain, the sadness, the power of a heart, no one can recreate the sea. Nowhere else.

If you think of the moon as already used, it__ not as difficult to take in, because then it__ just like you,Traveled the world like you,Seen the globe like you,But, it__ still bright.

Solace is what we must look for when the mind cannot bear the pain, the loss or the suffering that eventually touches every life and every endeavour; when longing does not come to fruition in a form we can recognize, when people we know and love disappear, when hope must take a different form than the one we have shaped for it.

We look before and after,And pine for what is not;Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell Of saddest thought.