I'm writing mostly to thank you for living you eighty years and to tell you I love you and think of you often.
Interpretation
This quote expresses gratitude and love for someone who has lived a long life.
In this heartfelt message, the speaker acknowledges the significance of the recipient's life over the past eighty years, reflecting on the deep emotions of love and remembrance. The quote captures the essence of cherishing someone significant and recognizing their impact on our lives.
In practice
This quote can be used in a birthday card to express love and appreciation for an elderly relative.
It is really hard to be lonely very long in a world of words. Even if you don't have friends somewhere, you still have language, and it will find you and wrap its little syllables around you and suddenly there will be a story to live in.
I am looking for the human who admits his flaws Who shocks the adversary By being kinder not stronger What would that be like? We don't even know
I love the solitude of reading. I love the deep dive into someone else's story, the delicious ache of a last page.
A boy told me if he roller-skated fast enough his loneliness couldn't catch up to him, the best reason I ever heard for trying to be a champion. What I wonder tonight pedaling hard down King William Street is if it translates to bicycles. A victory! To leave your loneliness panting behind you on some street corner while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas, pink petals that have never felt loneliness, no matter how slowly they fell.
I think whenever you love something or somebody it means that you have to extend yourself, you have to grow - get a little larger. You can't stay in your little comfortable - spot.
As a direct line to human feeling, empathic experience, genuine language and detail, poetry is everything that headline news is not. It takes us inside situations, helps us imagine life from more than one perspective, honors imagery and metaphor - those great tools of thought - and deepens our confidence in a meaningful world.
They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.
Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
And now you are and I am and we're a mystery which will never happen again.
If you listen long enough you can hear my skin grow tough love is painful to the touch must be made of stronger stuff.
You have to give others the opportunity to love who you love. If they don't accept it, it's their loss.
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