Quotes About Emotion

It is possible to be in love with you just because of who you are.

You're like a song that I heard when I was a little kid but forgot I knew until I heard it again.

Memories are like layers of your skin or layers of paint on a canvas.

Culture of the mind must be subservient to the heart.

A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.

Les rêves aussi sont contagieux

Je m'étonne/ De ceux qui, connaissant l'amour, aiment encore!

My love, I fear the silence of your hands.

Please take your time. I want you to kill me slowly so I can write my last poem to my wife's heart. They laughed, and took from me only the words dedicated to my wife's heart.

I love you so, you are so much yourself! He is so afraid of his soul: no "I" now but she. She is now within me. And no "she" now but only my fragile "I" At the end of this song, how much I fear that my dream may not see its dream in her.

I melt at your glances and become music.

The image of love reveals itself there; in a profoundly present absence.

And in your absence, I cried like I never did before I cried with all senses I cried as if I'm raining As if I'm melting all at once.

I used to invent love when necessary. When I walked alone on the riverbank. Or whenever the level of salt would rise in my body, I would invent the river.

A poet need not trouble himself if he lies. He lies only in the matter of love, as the regions of the heart are open to tempting conquest.

Don't say that poetry, my friend, is beautiful or powerful for there is no powerful or beautiful poetry There is poetry that strikes you, secretly with the diseases of writing and schizophrenia, and you rave and your self leaves you for another

Words are a homeland.

I embrace you, until I return to my void, as an eternal visitor. No life and no death in what I sense as a bird passing beyond nature. when I embrace you… from "Maybe, Because Winter Is Late

No one has arrived. Leave me there as you would leave a myth with any person who sees you until he cries and rushes into himself, afraid of happiness.

I will choose from my intimate memories what's fitting: the scent of wrinkled sheets after making love is the scent of grass after rain. — Mahmoud Darwish, from "Dense Fog Over The Bridge," If I Were Another: Poems . Translated by Fady Joudah. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 1 edition, October 27, 2009) Originally published 2009.

Peace to the hint of sadness in your eyes.

How do I say I miss you in a way that will make your heart ache as mine does?

There must be a secret. There must be an ongoing secret for love to remain a surprise and a gift.

Boredom is humiliating, like desire erupting out of place.