How many nights, I held you, you are all to me. Your face has branded a sea of flowers in my heart, and the pen in my hand is so far away from your long hair.
I walked through the dusk and the fence, and your green dance skirt lingered in my eyes. That burning glass of red wine glides over your lips. Then I got drunk and wrote your name in the world of mortals.
I have passed you countless times, and when I think of your appearance, I am overwhelmed by loneliness. The dim street lamp shone in my shadow, and I stood in the crowd for a long time. Your name is on the paper, but my rusty pen will never blossom again.
Sometimes you are far away from me, and sometimes you are right in front of me. The way you read fascinates me, and so does your long hair. When I am near you, I am a silent fishing boat in the waves. Without you, I have nothing.
Words are my bravest confession to you. They made you and me. No matter how scrawled, I love you deeply. I am full of smiles, like an old horse, walking in your years.
One day, I will stay away from this disappearing landscape without you. I reached out and your back surrounded my memory. How bleak! Autumn is everywhere. The fallen leaves buried our love, where should I start looking?
I want to hug you, listen to your heart beating and smell your hair. The osmanthus tree left us yesterday, and your smile fascinated me. If we chose to hold hands and kiss under the ginkgo tree that time, would you turn around?
You said that you like Haizi's poem Half Poetry best. I haven't changed a word of this poem. He is your favorite Haizi, and you are my favorite half poem. I stand in the dust and miss everything about you.
How poor and dirty am I? My sun falls from your face, your heart is a soft sky, I run in your long hair, some wings break my feathers, and some fall at your feet freely.
Since dawn, I have been peeping at your voice and smile in every dewdrop, and I love you infinitely with every spring. I will be your shadow for the rest of my life. The way you talk, read and comb your hair always keeps me tired of years.
"I wish I would never mention the past, pain and happiness ..." My half poem is a draft of love, and it is a heart-wrenching sob in the wastebasket. I look at you, and the years tell you for me-I love you deeply and feel more lonely.
You are my half-poem, with no novel poetry, no wrong image, just approaching with your heart. Then I put it out in your light, like rain washing your long hair. Love of my life! The ebbing waves in The Sound of the Waves are silent.
20 19.2.9 Neijiang, at the impact site.
Note: "You are mine, half of the poem, half buried with love, half buried with body, you are mine, half of the poem, and no one is allowed to change a word."