I'll always touch you.

I was always yours to have.
You were always mine.
We have loved each other in and out of time.

Your still searching for me in every woman. You'll always seek to duplicate what we had. You know it.

I think of you so incessantly, so insistently. The thought of you is always there. It lies hidden, a latency, in the most unlikely things and places, ready at the command of some chance association to jump out at me from its ambush.

I think of you more often than of anyone else in this part of the world. I'd have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister — anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don't realize it. You really are a part of me.

You are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing.

If it could only be like this always – always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe and Aloysius in a good temper...

If you think you’re attractive, you’re always attractive.

"In Heaven, it is always Autumn".

You are, and always have been, my dream.

Dear Valentine, I have thought of you often. Not all the time, but often.

"I write about you all the time, I said aloud. Every time I say "I", it refers to you."

‎The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundereds of times when I dont realize it. You really are a part of me.

You were made perfectly to be loved and surely I have loved you in the idea of you my whole life long.