The spring breeze in February is like scissors, and it also cuts out your elegance and charm. Although the moonlight that has gone through the wrong door is thinner than a piece of snow, it can bloom a warm flower. Put this scenery that has been warmed by you into your body, and let her grow into a spring that misses you.
You are the tenderness of my pen, there is so much love waiting for me to express. The day and night that belong to us are densely packed on the paper, and some of the love that touches the heart is squeezed to the edge of the paper, along with the full stop that the rose is about to fall.
Let's not talk about sleepiness and exhaustion, as for loneliness and loneliness, let it go with the wind. What about your fiery lips? What do you tiptoe to look forward to? You said hugging me tightly, like embracing a dark night that misses you.
Every step of your gentleness leaves an echo on the paper. From your deep eyes, I read the joy of meeting and the sorrow of parting. All I want to tell you is that every grain of my words is imbued with your breath.
You are the tenderness of my pen. The spring rain that I can't write for the rest of my life, listening to the murmur under the eaves of the swallow, grows a piece of encounter, and grows out of the distance that loves you. The emotions that can't be stopped, like a river that melts ice, flows out of the chapters of love you.