unrequited-love

At the ponds that evening I said to Antonio: "It's always been like that, since we were little: everyone thinks she's bad and I'm good."He kissed me, murmuring ironically, "Why, isn't that true?"That response touched me and kept me from telling him that we had to part. It was a decision that seemed to me urgent, the affection wasn't love, I loved Nino, I knew I would love him forever. I had a gentle speech prepared for Antonio, I wanted to say to him: It's been wonderful, you helped me a lot at a time when I was sad, but now school is starting and this year is going to be difficult, I have new subjects, I'll have to study a lot; I'm sorry but we have to stop. I felt it was necessary and every afternoon I went to our meeting at the ponds with my little speech ready. But he was so affectionate, so passionate, that my courage failed and I put it off.

We're cool," I say calmly, although I feel something else. I feel... sad. Like I've lost something I never quite had.

Time didn__ heal my heal wounds but it lent me perspective. My vision was no longer clouded and I saw what I__ become. I__ let inspiration become obsession. Tunnel vision had hindered all progress. I was so fixated on you, I got stuck.

But his face had that hollow look, as if there was something gone... you know that look. The inward focus. Distantly attentive to the home you're missing, or the someone you're missing. That look that a bird has when it turns it dry reptilian eye on you. That look that doesn't see you because the mind is filled up with someone it would rather see.

I watched as Humphrey Bogart__ character used beans as a metaphor for the relative unimportance in the wider world of his relationship with Ingrid Bergman__ character, and chose logic and decency ahead of his selfish emotional desires. The quandary and resulting decision made for an engrossing film. But this was not what people cried about. They were in love and could not be together. I repeated this statement to myself, trying to force an emotional reaction. I couldn__. I didn__ care. I had enough problems of my own.

She could never be part of so much of his turbulent history, his youthful adventure, where life had been deeply felt.

I never hated you. My anger was never with you, but with the little hell my heart had put me in. The anger always passed. I never regretted loving you. If I had gone to my grave never kissing you or touching you, I still would not have thought it a wasted love.

Are you using me simply as a vulgar tool? Don't you care for me the least little bit? Let me suggest that for a girl in your-your ambiguous position, you are too proud, by several shades. Don't go back to Roger in a hurry! You're not the unspotted maiden you were but two short days ago. Who am I, what am I, to the people whose opinion you care for? A very low fellow, madam; and yet with me you've gone far to cast your lot. If you're not prepared to do more, you should have done less. Nora, Nora," he went on, breaking into a vein none the less revolting for being more ardent, "I confess I don't understand you! But the more you puzzle me the more you fascinate me; and the less you like me the more I love you. What has there been between you and Lawrence? Hang me if I can understand! Are you an angel of purity, or are you the most audacious of flirts?

And, long after Clark had gone home, Solomon stayed up wondering if everyone falls in love with someone who can't love them back.

Her love has been always unrequited, but until now it wasn't real love. Now it hurts, and that's how she knows it is real.

Every night I build a fire for you, Alowa. Every night I dance on the rooftop for you. Look at the flames, Alowa. Aren__ they beautiful? Look at the smoke. I__ dancing in the smoke, Alowa.

She was limp and pathetic and woozy and I loved her, I realised, even more because I knew how completely it was doomed.

If I broke her heart, her image of me would break too

Mom put dense cheddar bread into a bag for a man who said this was his wife's favorite - he'd driven all the way from New Jersey to buy it because today was their anniversary. Several women in the store jabbed their husbands on hearing this. I hung my head - Peter Terris wouldn't cross the street to buy me a Twinkie.

I__e had many crushes before, but none so deep as this. Your scent__ the only thing I crave; you__e the only one I miss.

All that existed was the blinding imperative to not think, to leave it all behind. To have it all fade to black in the throes of a truly good orgasm. To thrust and rock and pound until he came long and hard. To reach the pinnacle as fast as he could, to leap off the edge and truly leave all his earth-bound worries behind.He was a cave man. He was a Neanderthal. He was fucking Cro-Magnon.

A thousand lips, a thousand eyes,a thousand hearts will read these words,as you read them, graze them, this moment. Thousands will utter them into the abyss, someday, perhaps for years to come; loudly, softly,repeatedly, again and again and again.Some will mock, some will laugh. Somewill shed a tear. But it is writtenonly for your lips, your eyes, your heart,beloved.Do as you please.It is written by an ideal heart,intense, yet free, when in thought of you. Written from a dehydrated pen, thatshed the last drops of her blood,onto you. And still, you do not know me.No, you will never know of this desire.It is a shame, when love cannot love,who she loves, amidst these mortal games. And No. It is for me to know,and for you to close the last pagesof my confessions, making nothing of it.As always, like always,I write for you and for the madnessthat stirs in every soul that has once burned, and for the tender parts of your soul, too.Nothing is hidden, nothing is revealed. The separation between the soul and mate,between lover and the beloved,is through spirit, is it not, my love? Or is it flesh? There, there is the clue.And this, this is the nature of our love. Forbidden,closed, then left ajar in oblivion.My eyes touch your lips, your eyes touch my lips, yet, no one makes a sound. No one moves on.What madness is this?And here you go, turning the pages now, there you go.

You have never loved me as I love you--never--never! Yours is not a passionate heart--your heart does not burn in a flame! You are, upon the whole, a sort of fay, or sprite-- not a woman!