At night, the drizzle crept in, slipping down my roof, drop by drop.
The half-hidden window was passing by with the wind passing by.
Think about it more, hide the soft voice in my rough words, and flow in the glitz of a piece of paper.
However, the brushwork mentioned was too light, and I couldn't grasp the excitement of this moment, so I had to let my messy thoughts continue to be messy in the noise of the rain.
In a shady corner, flipping through an old book that had been sitting for a few years, there is a shriveled bookmark that gently slides from the yellowed pages. Carefully picked it up, it was a brown maple leaf, the withered face no longer had its original fresh color, only the dry shell remained, warming the eyes.
I'm an emotional person, and I'm often easily moved by some details, stuck in soft memories, stopping for one of them, or a certain person, and then distracted. Chewing on distant stories, although the folded fragments are a little ancient, they have long since lost their original fragrance, and swallowing the tea in one gulp, but they devour the soul, leaving me in prison and unable to stop. After all, we can't go back to the past, a game, just a dream, a journey, there is a love.
Where the past has stopped, there is still a smell of déjà vu, and when I smell it, melancholy will cross my boundless heart. Thoughts turned into rain with the wind, annihilating my spring.
You say you're walking in your bright April. And I, on the other hand, live in my rainy March. The season is staggered, and you can't catch up with your footsteps that go too fast, and you will eventually miss it. In the same sky, there are two people's worlds and two hearts that cannot be approached.
The spring breeze in March is still gentle, warm and ambiguous, pushing away a clear picture. Like, the starlight in the sky last night, and your flirtatious smile, have made me beautiful and colorful enough every season. After going through life, I found that no, all flowers have results, and not all efforts will definitely be rewarded.
I believe that in your eyes, you have never been a poet, but your lover. My flower-like language penetrates into your time, not for bewitchment, not for romance, but for a cry of love. Like a year of flowing water, the waves rise and fall, and if you can't catch the last train, you and I have long disappeared in the sea of people. We are no longer the only ones of each other, the ends of the world, cut off contact, and have been dependent on each other ever since. And I, after all, can't forget my feelings, trapped in the quagmire that I can't get out of.
The past is evocative, staying at the bottom of the years, becoming a glimpse in the floating light. The love that has been brewed has the mellow flavor of wine, and after drinking it, it will also be intoxicating, and only loneliness will be experienced.
In this life, who gave me the weight of a mountain and made me depressed? **Who is it that buries a stormy affair with his own hands? The fragrance is falling, the flying flowers are like rain, and the prosperity of the passing years can wither several times. On the thousands of smoke waves, there can no longer float a bright moon, our dust edge will eventually follow the wind, dust will return to dust, and the soil will return to earth.
Memories are quiet, sleeping in corners that no one can see, sometimes drilling out of the cracks in the bottom of the heart, which is no longer painful, and is destined not to dance a wasted old life. The episode of watching each sunrise with me can only be repeated again and again in my dreams, and we can only be passers-by.
Time goes back and forth in the cycle of the four seasons, witnessing the thousands of changes in the world, and the transformation of you and me. A love affair can't withstand the length of time, and it has become a farce that leaves early. When I look up from the thick time, I can't see your figure, and the empty city is full of worry.
Passing by the memories, I was once again confronted with sorrow.
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