Love Trace Quotes & Sayings

I wanted someone to hold me close so I slide across and snuggled in tight and said, 'Hold me.' He did, and it was tender and truly sweet, but without a trace of that wild carnal edge you would have to cross if you want to get so close together you can't tell each other apart.

I pushed it. I said, 'I want to get closer. I want you to love who I am.' Love doesn't do much for the powers of explanation, but since Love has never asked for one itself, that seems fair enough. — Jim Dodge

I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a rose of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green. — Nathaniel Hawthorne

He could see now that she looked tired; the delicate tissue under her eyes bruised violet with fatigue. He fought an almost irresistible desire to trace the half-circles with his finger. — Meg Rosoff

I would lean forward and trace my hands down your arms and curve my neck into yours and let you turn into me and rest there for a while and when you were ready, i'd kiss you once and lift myself away, sit back on your bed and wait for you there, just so we could lie there, and you could hold me and i could hold you. And it would be so peaceful. Like the feeling of sleep, but being awake in it together. — John Green

Even from her distance, Darcy heard Trace yelling at Ember loud enough to shake the building.

Kyle leaned up against the wall with a slight grin on his face. "Understand now?"

"Yeah, she's going to go deaf."

"Probably, but she totally had it coming."

"It must be nice to have someone love you so much to shout at you until you're disabled," Darcy said almost dreamily. — L.A. Fiore

I watched her index finger trace the barbed wire tattoo that wrapped around my bicep. "Was this to signify anything?"
"Not really." Even a gentle touch from her made my pulse jump. "I got it after I graduated high school. I was so pissed that my parents were gone. Thought I was badass."
She smiled and kissed my chest. "You just made love to me on a Harley. You are totally badass. — Lisa Kessler

I love playing the CMA Music Festival each year because it's one of the very best audiences you could hope for. It's one of the places you can perform where you know everyone there is a big Country Music fan. — Trace Adkins

The greatest stories ever told trace a path through the charred and exalted landscape of romantic love. — Elizabeth Lesser

INTERVIEWER
Do you believe in God?
ECO
Why does one love a certain person one day and discover the next day that the love is gone? Feelings, alas, disappear without justification, and often without a trace.
INTERVIEWER
If you don't believe in God, then why have you written at such great length about religion?
ECO
Because I do believe in religion. Human beings are religious animals, and such a characteristic feature of human behavior cannot be ignored or dismissed. — Umberto Eco

If You Should Go
Love, leave me like the light,
The gently passing day;
We would not know, but for the night,
When it has slipped away.
Go quietly; a dream,
When done, should leave no trace
That it has lived, except a gleam
Across the dreamer's face. — Countee Cullen

A single bead of water rolled along the length of his spine and glided down the powerful lines of his body. Mariel moistened her lips and watched its seductive descent, overwhelmed with the temptation to trace its path with the tip of her tongue. — Madeline Martin

Eusebius strongly challenges believers of all times on their approach to the events of history and of the Church in particular. He also challenges us: what is our attitude with regard to the Church's experiences? Is it the attitude of those who are interested in it merely out of curiosity, or even in search of something sensational or shocking at all costs? Or is it an attitude full of love and open to the mystery of those who know - through faith - that they can trace in the history of the Church those signs of God's love and the great works of salvation wrought by him? — Pope Benedict XVI

I need you, need you
Since you left me if you see me with another girl
Seeming like I'm having fun
Although she may be cute
She's just a substitute
Because you're the permanent one
So take a good look at my face
You'll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer, it's easy to trace
The tracks of my tears
I need you, need you
Outside I'm masquerading
Inside my hope is fading
Just a clown oh yeah
Since you put me down
My smile is my make up
i wear my since my 1st breakup.

sahi — Lovelace

Start with a girl whose blood has been steeped in Korea for generations, imprinted with Confucianism and shamanism and war. Extract her from the mountains. Plant her in wheat fields between the Red River and the Mississippi. Baptize her. Indoctrinate her. Tell her who she is. Tell her what is real.
See what happens.
Witness a love affair with freaks, a fascination with hermaphrodites and conjoined twins, a fixation on Pisces and pairs of opposites. Trace a dream that won't die: a vision of an old woman slumped on a bench, her spirit sitting straight out of the body, joined to the corpse at the waist. — Jane Jeong Trenka

Vasectomy
After the steaming bodies swept
through the hungry streets of swollen cities;
after the vast pink spawning of family
poisoned the rivers and ravaged the prairies;
after the gamble of latex and
diaphragms and pills;
I invoked the white robes, gleaming blades
ready for blood, and, feeling the scourge
of Increase and Multiply, made
affirmation: Yes, deliver us from
complicity.
And after the precision of scalpels,
I woke to a landscape of sunshine where
the catbird mates for life and
maps trace out no alibis - stepped
into a morning of naked truth,
where acts mean what they really are:
the purity of loving
for the sake of love. — Philip Appleman

Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one. — George Gordon Byron

No, it's okay. It was just ... weird. No one has ever called me hot before."
"Really?" Trace frowned. "Well, that changes right now."
He ceased walking, stopping in the dead center of the pathway and reached for my hands. "Jade Cannon, you are totally hot!" Trace announced loudly, and people nearby stopped to stare at us after his outburst. I couldn't help but laugh. — Chelsea Lynn Charters

When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love! - then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. — John Keats

I love
all things,
not because they are passionate or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don't know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine:
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms,
glasses, knives and
scissors --
all bear
the trace
of someone's fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness. — Pablo Neruda

When a film's heroine innocently coughs, you know that two scenes later, at most, she'll be in an oxygen tent; when a man bumps into a woman at the train station, you know that man will become the woman's lover and/or murderer. In everyday life, where we cough often and are always bumping into people, our daily actions rarely reverberate so lucidly. Once we love or hate someone, we can think back and remember that first casual encounter. But what of all the chance meetings that nothing ever comes of? While our bodies move ever forward on the time line, our minds continuously trace backward, seeking shape and meaning as deftly as any arrow seeking its mark. — Lucy Grealy

We can trace the communitarian fantasy that lies at the root of all humanism back to the model of a literary society, in which participation through reading the canon reveals a common love of inspiring messages. At the heart of humanism so understood we discover a cult or club fantasy: the dream of the portentous solidarity of those who have been chosen to be allowed to read. In the ancient world - indeed, until the dawn of the modern nation-states - the power of reading actually did mean something like membership of a secret elite; linguistic knowledge once counted in many places as the provenance of sorcery. In Middle English the word 'glamour' developed out of the word 'grammar'. The person who could read would be thought easily capable of other impossibilities. — Peter Sloterdijk

We women, me and you. Tell me something real. Don't just say I'm grown and ought to know. I don't. I'm fifty and I don't know nothing. What about it? Do I stay with him? I want to, I think. I want ... well, I didn't always ... now I want. I want some fat in this life."
"Wake up. Fat or lean, you got just one. This is it."
"You don't know either, do you?"
"I know enough to know how to behave."
"Is that it? Is that all it is?"
"Is that all what is?"
"Oh shoot! Where the grown people? Is it us?"
"Oh, Mama." Alice Manfred blurted it out and then covered her mouth.
Violet had the same thought: Mama. Mama? Is this where you got to and couldn't do it no more? The place of shade without trees where you know you are not and never again will be loved by anybody who can choose to do it? Where everything is over but the talking?
- Violet Trace and Alice Manfred — Toni Morrison

I love you, Trace. I always have. Just remember that, okay? Hold on to it. No matter what I say or what I do ... and trust me, I'll do some terrible things. Just know. I love you. With every fiber of my being. — Rachel Van Dyken

Now I've got nothing left to lose
You take your time to choose
I can tell you now without a trace of fear

That my love will be forever
And we'll die we'll die together
Lie, I will never
'Cause our love will be forever"
~Neutron Star Collision (Love is Forever) — Matthew J. Bellamy

He was the lover who never showed his face, the man most avid for love as well as most niggardly with it, the man who gave nothing and wanted everything, the man who did not allow anyone to leave a trace of her passing in his heart, the hunter lying in ambush. — Gabriel Garcia Marquez

This was the lesson we kept learning over and over and over, the lesson our mother was best capable of teaching us. Love - whatever else it might or might not be - was fleeting. Love stormed into your life and occupied it, it took over every corner of your soul, made itself comfortable, made itself wanted, then treasured, then necessary, love did all of this and then it did next the only thing it had left to do, it retreated, it vanished, it left no trace of itself. Love was horrifying. — Christie Hodgen

I love country; I'm gonna do a country solo album at one point just 'cause. I'm a big fan of Keith Urban, Trace Adkins, Rascal Flatts, even though that's more pop. I grew up on country. — Tony Oller

The back is one of my favorite parts of a woman's body. I love to trace and lick the shallow line of her spine, from the top and all the way down to the twin dimples at the base of her lower back. — Gina L. Maxwell

I trace his face with my fingers, 'Let me see. A guy tells me that he would have thrown himself in front of a train if it wasn't for me and then drives seven hours straight, without whingeing once, on a wild-goose chase in search of my mother with absolutely no clue where to start. He is, in all probability, going to get court-martialled because of me, has put up with my moodiness all day long, and knows exactly what to order me for breakfast. It doesn't get any more romantic than that, Jonah. — Melina Marchetta

New love might replace an earlier love, but the old love is always there, no matter what. You live your life on two levels, probably to avoid falling through without a trace if a hole appears in one of them. — Henning Mankell

Let them love and be loved back, like I have been — Trace Adkins

Yet Anthony knew that there were days when they hurt each other purposely - taking almost a delight in the thrust. Incessantly she puzzled him: one hour so intimate and charming, striving desperately toward an unguessed, transcendent union; the next, silent and cold, apparently unmoved by any consideration of their love or anything he could say. Often he would eventually trace these portentous reticences to some physical discomfort - of these she never complained until they were over - or to some carelessness or presumption in him, or to an unsatisfactory dish at dinner, but even then the means by which she created the infinite distances she spread about herself were a mystery, buried somewhere back in those twenty-two years of unwavering pride. — F Scott Fitzgerald

To love! To surrender absolutely, to prostrate oneself before the divine image, to die a thousand imaginary deaths, to annihilate every trace of self, to find the whole universe embodied and enshrined in the living image of another! Adolescent, we say. Rot! This is the germ of the future life, the seed which we hide away, which we bury deep within us, which we smother and stifle and do our utmost to destroy as we advance from one experience to another and flutter and flounder and lose our way. — Henry Miller

In my old age, I have come to believe that love is not a noun but a verb. An action. Like water, it flows to its own current. If you were to corner it in a dam, true love is so bountiful it would flow over. Even in separation, even in death, it moves and changes. It lives within memory, in the haunting of a touch, the transience of a smell, or the nuance of a sigh. It seeks to leave a trace like a fossil in the sand, a leaf burning into baking asphalt. — Alyson Richman

I trace the letters on the tree behind us in the picture. No one knows what's churning inside of me. Crushing guilt...Pain...Relief. All mixed with knowledge that Trip is never coming back. — Jennifer Shaw Wolf

Once a thing is removed from your heart, a trace of it still remains. — Will Advise

I want you to tell me something," I whisper. "What?" "Don't get mad." "What is it, Ana?" "You do care." His eyes widen, and all trace of his good humor vanishes. "I want you to admit that you care. Because the Christian I know and love would care." He stills, his eyes not leaving mine, and I'm witness to his internal struggle as if he's about to make the judgment of Solomon. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again as some fleeting emotion crosses his face ... pain, maybe. — E.L. James

Another year passed on . The waves of time seemed long since to have swept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. But her husband still thought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent watches of the night :And Mary would start from her hard-earned sleep,and think in her half dreamy, half awakened state, she saw her mother stand by her bed-side ,as she used to do 'in the days of long-ago'; with shaded candle and an expression of ineffable tenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. — Elizabeth Gaskell

If she had been a normal female, she would have swooned. But she was not normal, never had been.
"Good grief, you are impossibly handsome," she said breathlessly. "I vow, I have never experienced the like. For an instant, my brain stopped altogether. I must say, my lord, you do clean up well. But next time, I wish you would call out a warning before you come into view, and give me a chance to brace myself for the onslaught."
Something dark flickered in his eyes. Then a corner of his hard mouth quirked up. "Miss Adams, you have an interesting - a unique - way with a compliment."
The trace of a smile disoriented her further. "It is a unique experience," she said. "I never knew my brain to shut off before, not while I was full awake. I wonder if the phenomenon has been scientifically documented and what physiological explanation has been proposed. — Loretta Chase

In Pliny I read about the invention of clay modeling. A Sicyonian potter came to Corinth. There his daughter fell in love with a young man who had to make frequent long journeys away from the city. When he sat with her at home, she used to trace the outline of his shadow that a candle's light cast on the wall. Then, in his absence she worked over the profile, deepening, so that she might enjoy his face, and remember. One day the father slapped some potter's clay over the gouged plaster; when the clay hardened he removed it, baked it, and "showed it abroad" (63). — Annie Dillard

Patrick's entire front torso was covered with gruesome stab wounds. Like he'd been run through again and again with a sharp knife - and it hadn't been an accident.
"Oh, love," I whispered. "What did you do to yourself?"
Hot tears stung my eyes as I began to trace his scars with my fingertips, leaning in to kiss them softly, one by one.
"Sui Caedere," he said. "I couldn't live without you. — Jess Rothenberg

I just don't know where to go from here, Alex."
"You don't have to, we can trace our map together. — Emiliano Campuzano

The most telling and profound way of describing the evolution of the universe would undoubtedly be to trace the evolution of love. — Pierre Teilhard De Chardin

Today I believe in the possibility of love; that is why I endeavor to trace its imperfections, its perversions. — Frantz Fanon

Avoid people who hurt from an impulse. I mean people who have this tendency to relish their capacity to hurt the good souls of this world, and who after hurting, wake up the next day without a trace of despondent brooding, and then move on with life never thinking that they should show some remorse or try to repent. — Janvier Chouteu-Chando

Once, Lila Zacharov was in love with a boy with hair as black as spilled ink and eyes as dark as coffee. She would trace his name on her skin, over and over, write it in the condensation of her breath on panes of glass, scrawl it on the bottoms of her feet with the tip of her nail, like she was casting a spell. — Holly Black

I believe in love. And beauty. I believe that every single person has something they find beautiful and that they truly love. The smell of their child's hair, the silence of a forest, their lover's crooked grin. Their country, their religion, their family. And I believe that if you follow this love all the way to its end, if you start with the thing you find most beautiful and trace it's perfume back to its essence, you will perceive an intangible presence, a swath of stillness that allows the thing you love to be visible like the openness of the sky reveals the presence of the moon. — Geneen Roth

Each one, in my impassioned interior conversations, granted me some aspect of my most dearly held, most fiercely hidden heart's desires. Life, art, motherhood. Love and the great seductive promise that I wasn't nothing. That I could be seen for my unvarnished self, and that this hidden self, this precious girl without a mask, unseen for decades, could, that indeed she must, leave a trace upon the world. — Claire Messud

My fingers lightly trace her arm and I swear she presses closer to me. I'd love to kiss her right now. Not the type of kiss that makes her body come alive. The type of kiss that shows her how much I care - the type that involves my soul. — Katie McGarry

When I am dead, I am certain that the imprint of my love will be found on my heart. It is impossible to worship as I do without leaving some visible trace behind when life is over. — Juliette Drouet

A person is like a candle... And in any second that candle and be blown. Live the moment with your loved one before its too late, before the candle is blown and its gone forever with no trace. — Grace

Where did love begin? What human being looked at another and saw in their face the forests and the sea? Was there a day, exhausted and weary, dragging home food, arms cut and scarred, that you saw yellow flowers and, not knowing what you did, picked them because I love you? In the fossil record of our existence, there is no trace of love. You cannot find it held in the earth's crust, waiting to be discovered. The long bones of our ancestors show nothing of their hearts. — Jeanette Winterson

I will write in words of fire.
I will write them on your skin.
I will write about desire.
Write beginnings, write of sin.
You're the book I love the best,
your skin only holds my truth,
you will be a palimpsest
lines of age rewriting youth.
You will not burn upon the pyre.
Or be buried on the shelf.
You're my letter to desire:
And you'll never read yourself.
I will trace each word and comma
As the final dusk descends,
You're my tale of dreams and drama,
Let us find out how it ends. — Neil Gaiman

Did you forget the dressing room at the mall?"
Forget? I have wet dreams involving that day. "That's not my fault. You asked how you looked in those jeans."
"Good would have sufficed. Attempting to take them off wasn't necessary."
"They did look good. Good enough that I wanted to touch, and then I wanted to touch more."
Echo laughs, and the sound warms my heart. "They have security cameras. People go to jail over stuff like that."
I roll onto my side and drape my leg over hers. "I had you covered from sight. Very covered." Backed her up against the wall and covered her body with every inch of mine.
That siren smile that I love so much crosses her face. Her fingers reach up and trace the line of my jaw. "You are the most impossible person I know."
"Damn straight. — Katie McGarry

And so it was I entered the broken world
To trace the visionary company of love, its voice
An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled)
But not for long to hold each desperate choice. — Hart Crane

You don't understand,' she said, and there was a puzzling trace of resentment in her voice. 'Children never do. The love a parent has for a child, there's nothing else like it. No other love so consuming. — Cassandra Clare

Use your finger to trace the scar upon my chest- I lied - it wasn't a knife wound, but a scrape from a nail sliding under a fence to see you ... — John Geddes

Why are you so hard on yourself?
I love you just the way you are,
with your withered coat and wet scarf dangling like a spotless chandelier.
The snow banks in Montreal are high, but I can see your trace, and silent grace and tin cup through the paned window.
The precipitation melts your face, distorting your expression through the aged glass; broken, when I threw ancient stones to get your attention
as a child.
I wanted a friend. The honest kind. — V.S. Atbay

The proper request of love is that our entire life should be oriented to the imitation of the Beloved. Let us therefore spare no effort to leave a transparent trace of God's love in our life. — Pope Benedict XVI

I am back in my beloved city. The scene of desolation fills my eyes with tears. At every step my distress and agitation increases. I cannot recognize houses or landmarks I once knew well. Of the former inhabitants, there is no trace. Everywhere there is a terrible emptiness. All at once I find myself in the quarter where I once resided. I recall the life I used to live: meeting friends in the evening, reciting poetry, making love, spending sleepless nights pining for beautiful women and writing verses on their long tresses which held me captive. That was life! What is there left of it? Nothing. — Khushwant Singh

I knew nothing about love. But it took six kisses to get from his mouth to his ear. Nine, ear to collarbone. Sixteen, collarbone to hipbone. And sometimes, when he was tired, he was ticklish right there in that hollow. No, I knew nothing about love. But I swear all I wanted to do for the rest of my life was lie on his chest, stealing his warmth, feeling him trace shapes into my hip. I wanted to slip my fingers in between his. There were seventeen scars on his hands. I wanted to know the story of every last one. — Jessica Gadziala

Whatever your favorite genre is, you can probably trace your love for it back to one single book that really moved you. — David Farland

A monument of grace, A sinner saved by blood; The streams of love I trace Up to the Fountain, God; And in His sacred bosom see Eternal thoughts of Love to me. — Charles Haddon Spurgeon

The constants that I look for are a love of light and a determination to trace some moral chain of being. — John Cheever

I've never seen beauty
so devastating
as in the lines
that trace our hope
and fall from the stars. — Jessica Kristie

The endorphin high of birth will fade, but its trace remains with you forever, its fingerprints indelible proof of love's presence and daily grandeur. You have offered up your prayer. You have vowed service to a new world and laid a bedrock of earthly faith. You have chosen your sword, your shield, and where you will fall. Whatever the morrow brings, these things, these people, will be with you always. The power of choice, of a life, a lover, a place to stand, will be there to be called upon and make fresh sense of your tangled history. More important, it will also be there when you waver, when you're lost, providing you with the elements of a new compass, encased within your heart. — Bruce Springsteen

My mother and father were married this way and are quite happy. I hope to find happiness, too. To find a woman that all of Illea can love, someone to be my companion and to help entertain the leaders of other nations. Someone who will befriend my friends and be my confidante. I'm ready to find my wife.
Something in his voice struck me. There wasn't a trace of sarcasm. This thing that seemed like little more than a game show to me was his only chance for happiness. He couldn't try with a second round of girls. Well, maybe he could, but how embarrassing. He was so desperate, so hopeful. I felt my distaste for him lessen. Marginally. — Kiera Cass

I call myself the last philosopher, because I am the last man. No one speaks with me but myself, and my voice comes to me like the voice of a dying man! Let me associate for but one hour more with you, dear voice, with you, the last trace of the memory of all human happiness. With you I escape loneliness through self-delusion and lie myself into multiplicity and love. For my heart resists the belief that love is dead. It cannot bear the shudder of the loneliest loneliness, and so it forces me to speak as if I were two. — Friedrich Nietzsche

Man is appealed to be guided in his acts, not merely by love, which is always personal, or at best tribal, but by his perception of his oneness with each human being. In the practice of mutual aid, which we can re-trace to the earliest beginnings of evolution, we thus find the positive and undoubted origin of our ethical conceptions; and we can affirm that in the ethical progress of man, mutual support- not mutual struggle- has had the leading part. — Peter Kropotkin

Karou who had, a lifetime past, begun this story on a battlefield, when she knelt beside a dying angel and smiled. You could trace a line from the beach at Bullfinch, through everything that had happened since - lives ended and begun, wars won and lost, love and wishbones and rage and regret and deception and despair and always, somehow, hope - and end up right here, in this cave in the Adelphas Mountains, in this company. — Laini Taylor

I'll never forget the stillness, the hesitation, and a trace of something I'd never before seen on Ghosh's face: cunning. Then it gave in to resignation and a faraway look. For a moment I saw the world through his eyes, his intellect, his sweeping vision ... a vision that recapitulated our birth and looked to the future, looked past his life to the end of mine and beyond. And then and only then did it settle, gather, and focus, on the now, on a moment when the love was so palpable between father and son that the thought that it might end, and this memory be its only legacy, was unacceptable. — Abraham Verghese

Love was long over, but what was lost to him he still loved so harshly that it prevented him from listening even to its trace. — Richard Powers

You bastard!" Before she could stop herself, Kat slapped his cheek as hard as she could. Deep caught her hand before she could pull it back. "Very nice, little Kat." Slowly, he drew the two fingers she'd used to touch herself between his lips, sucking and licking gently as though trying to get every last trace of her juices. Kat felt her heart skip a beat and then start to pound crazily against her ribs. Like it or not, she had to admit that the feel of his warm mouth on her flesh and the hot way he was looking at her was having an effect on her overheated body. "St-stop it," she stuttered, trying to pull away. "Let me go." "For now." He released her hand and began shrugging back into his shirt. "But you'll pay for that little love tap, my lady. I promise you that." Kat — Evangeline Anderson

God, it's been a terrible idea the whole time, hasn't it? What are we even doing?" His smile is slow, but it carries a promise behind it - absolute, unspeakable joy. "Falling in love." "Oh." The words warm places I'd forgotten were chilled. I touch my thumb to his lips and trace that smile, dizzy with the realization that this is real. This is my life. And there are no secrets left to ruin it. "Are we going to keep doing it?" "Yes." He leans closer, until his breath kisses my lips. "Every second of every day. — Joelle Knox

Is it needy? It's not. We don't need each other. We just really, really enjoy each other. And we're good together. We're good people together. And I have the funniest feeling. I can really, truly touch this all, this happiness and the sadness too, I can trace all of it with my fingers. It isn't theoretical or distant. This feels like me. This is me. I love him, and, for the first time in a relationship, I also like me. Every time he says "I love you," I answer, "I believe you. — Emma Forrest

I know this sounds like quite a pile. I know, too, that some of you will wonder why I don't just buy a Kindle. I see your point, but the trouble is that to do so would be to forgo the pleasure of the moment when, years in the future, sand falls from the pages of an old book, and you suddenly remember the Isle of Wight and A Passage to India, a Greek island and The Map of Love, or whatever. For me, a ghostly trace of Ambre Solaire rising from the pages of a sun-bleached paperback is a way back to the past: to favourite stories as much as to favourite beaches. — Rachel Cooke

Trace was just one of those guys who caught your attention no matter if you had a ring on your finger. He would be hot 'til the day he died. Seriously. — Chelsea Lynn Charters The Gossip Web

It's 11 am and I'm sitting in a restaurant
3 beers in. Believe me, even I'm surprised
I'm still alive sometimes.
I have been drinking about you for 2 days.
Lately you remind me of a wild thing
chewing through its foot. But you
are already free and I don't know what to do
except trace the rough line of your jaw
and try not to place blame.
Here is the truth: It is hard to be in love
with someone who is in love someone else.
I don't know how to turn that into poetry. — Clementine Von Radics

To love someone is to isolate him from the world, wipe out every trace of him, dispossess him of his shadow, drag him into a murderous future. It is to circle around the other like a dead star and absorb him into a black light. — Jean Baudrillard

God help me, how Tolstoy sweats over drying up people's sources of life, of wild and joyful life, drying them up and making the world fat with the love of God and everyman ... But the man is old, after all, his fountains of life run dry, without a trace remaining of human affections ... Only someone who has become slow and watertight with old age, satiated and hardened with pleasure, will go to youth and say, Renounce! ... And yet the youth renounces nothing, but sins royally for forty years. Such is the course of nature! — Knut Hamsun

When there is not a trace of worldly love that is called 'absolute ultimate love' [paramarth prem]! — Dada Bhagwan

Love in all its subtleties is nothing more, and nothing less, than the more or less direct trace marked on the heart of the element by the psychical convergence of the universe upon itself. — Pierre Teilhard De Chardin

I got to love solitude - to see the Moon rise and set - I had time to watch it trace the window square across the wall in silent grace ... — John Geddes

My lips on your body trace the story of my love. — C.D. Reiss

But you can't truly hate a man without loving him first, and there's always a trace of that love left over. — Joe Abercrombie

You must learn her.
You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there.You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to.You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.
And, this is how you keep her. — Junot Diaz

We can't stop staring at each other. Saying nothing, nothing to say. I trace the curve of his jaw and throat, the sweet spot below his ear, with only my eyes, because he's too faraway to touch. We stare and we stare and I can't stop myself from smiling, because he's smiling, too. We don't have to speak to have this conversation; in fact, the only way to have it is by not using words. — Megan Hart

It is easy to say how we love new friends, and what we think of them, but words can never trace out all the fibers that knit us to the old. — George Eliot

I love you. I'm in love with you.
She heard absolutely nothing for ten full seconds. And when he did speak, she caught the faintest trace of fear mixed in with the annoyance.
Hell. No good deed goes unpunished. — Nora Roberts

In times that are dark and God seems far [away], I look for him in small ways - the innocent laughter of a child on an airplane, the way the rain falls down through tree branches, the aroma of honeysuckle as I ride my bike down the Natchez Trace, and through the love of friends who have carried me through the darkest times of my life. — Anne Jackson

To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has left never to return: It is to grieve, dear reader, it is to weep. — Orhan Pamuk

I thought about the terrible uselessness of suffering. Love leaves behind its creation-the next generation coming into the world; the continuation of humanity. But suffering? Such a great part of human experience, the most difficult and painful, passes leaving no trace. If one were to collect the energy of suffering emitted by the millions of people here [Magadan, Russia] and transform it into the power of creation, one could turn our planet into a flowering garden. But what would remain?
Rusty carcasses of ships, rotting watchtowers, deep holes which some kind of ore was once extracted. A dismal, lifeless emptiness. Not a soul anywhere, for the exhausted columns have already passed and vanished in the cold eternal fog. — Ryszard Kapuscinski

Her face was a map I'd like to trace. I'd love to see where it would take me. And I'd love to see where she had been. — Ann Rinaldi

The answer to what we're looking for, fixing the world with love, has to be traced back to something, and we can only trace it back to the God who is love. If we dive into the rest of Genesis and say, "What is this 'day' nonsense? As modern people, we can't believe that," then we have already missed the point. God has revealed to us through Moses the foundations of our desire for love and we want to talk about matter? When we lie in bed at night, do we miss matter or do we miss love? We miss love. — Zach Weihrauch

He looked at her as a man might look at a faded flower he had plucked, in which it was difficult for him to trace the beauty that had made him pick and so destroy it — Leo Tolstoy

I was afraid. Of getting hurt in other ways. To be truthful, I still am."
His thumb stroked her cheek. "I would never hurt you."
"I don't think you can promise me that." She squeezed his bruised fingers. "But it makes things a bit more equal, to know that I can hurt you, too."
His gaze fell to her lips. He said simply, without any trace of irony, "You are killing me. — Tessa Dare

... but Charlie had seen love and prise flare in the brown eyes, burning away every trace of sadness and timidity. Rose Petch, she knew, would never abandon her child the way Charlie's mother had abandoned her. ... Charlie stood, trembling, torn nearly in two by jealousy and longing ... — Ellen Renner

I sincerely believe that the best criticism is the criticism that is entertaining and poetic; not a cold analytical type of criticism, which, claiming to explain everything, is devoid of hatred and love, and deliberately rids itself of any trace of feeling, but, since a fine painting is nature reflected by an artist, the best critical study, I repeat, will be the one that is that painting reflected by an intelligent and sensitive mind. Thus the best accounts of a picture may well be a sonnet or an elegy ... But that type of criticism is destined for books of poetry and for readers of poetry. As to criticism proper, I hope philosophers will understand what I am about to say: to be in focus, in other words to justify itself, criticism must be partial, passionate, political, that is to say it must adopt an exclusive point of view, provided always the one adopted opens up the widest horizons. — Charles Baudelaire

In a certain state of mind, all trace of feeling is banished. Whenever I remain silent in a certain way, I don't love you, have you noticed that? — Marguerite Duras

We became a tribe recalling the founding
two. Ducked in thru a door, we ate food
from Reunion, island in an ocean some-
where, we forgot which, ducked in, not a
trace
of them there. . . We clutched bodies, rubbed
each other's limbs, less in love with skin than
the memory of skin, skin's image, all the
more
extolling skin. . . Sexed insinuance, nixed
insistence in retreat. . . Would-be what-if,
what
if. . . We wanted it back, big promise, portent,
apocalypse,
urgency, plummet,
plunge — Nathaniel Mackey