(1) The drizzle is light, and my life is vividly on paper.
Orange glazed tiles, hanging in the air, are collected at the bottom of the pen by delusion, and the dark thoughts continue to lead the way, and the rain gently bounces. I've been on paper all my life.
Rain, dripping on the windowsill, the sound of falling rain caressed my gentle and dynamic melody and beat my eardrum. who is it? Set off my lonely skirt.
When the tide of Jude silk flooded into my mind, your appearance doomed my romance to have a starting point. That kind of feeling is a kind of reality that I never touched in my imagination, and I have been really walking between buildings on white paper.
The scene of falling flowers last year is now repeating itself. It is not the petals that fall in the rain, but the woman's heart. Petals falling on raindrops, like a woman's unfulfilled wish at the end of the flower season, float on the water, waiting for someone who can understand them to appease them.
I don't know if it's love in previous lives or robbery in this life. All love and hate are in endless thoughts.
You said: miss you, miss you, miss you.
Turn on that small color printer, and a piece of white paper, deep and shallow, big and small, is full of these words.
(b) Chrysanthemum residue, all over the floor, your smile has turned yellow.
The stamen is cold, there is a trace of green in the ash, faint flowers, faint snow, a petal of flowers, a flower falling also hurts the city, the chrysanthemum is broken, and the ground is also hurt. Your smile turned yellow.
My fingers are rippling with tender feelings for you, but how many people can understand the language of flowers? Slight sadness, holding half-old memories, that is the mark of love.
In the cycle of years, I count each other's hair. When I found the first gray hair, I knew it was because a person's name was imprinted on my mind forever.
Singing in a low voice, whispering to the fleeting time, sleeping with a cloud curtain and flowers on my pillow, talking in a low voice, leaning back, full of sadness, the slightest sound is like the flute by the maple bridge in my previous life.
You said you liked my eyes, just like a deep lake. Love extends to the bottom of the lake. You will be intoxicated if you watch it for a long time.
Small shadow is oblique, afraid of flower residue, moonlight smoke sorrow. I cried quietly. In the dream, we hugged each other and woke up, and that clear face gradually turned yellow.
(3) The north wind is chaotic, the night is still early, and your shadow keeps cutting.
It's hard to sleep. In the faint moonlight, I am here, releasing my thoughts from a distance. The north wind is chaotic, the night is still early, and your shadow keeps cutting.
Shake off my thoughts, and stick to the back of time in the vague years. The afterlife is nothingness that we can't see the end of. A song of dreams will send you a string.
Your figure, standing quietly in my heart, gradually turned into an ink painting, pulling out the song, indulging in the book of songs, falling with the wind, petal rain, petal city.
In the boundless time, I leave you like smoke, still silently waiting for the mysterious surprise. The lingering in Tang Feng is because of your tenderness. How painful is it to gently blow up those past feelings?
You said: love you, love you, love you!
Behind that piece of white paper, there are all these words, love you, and the handwriting is bigger than a line.
(4) Flowers fall brilliantly in the evening.
Boil a pool of moonlight, through the orange-green window, when the flowers all over the sky have fallen into prosperity, sad lonely night, flowers have also fallen into the night.
Memory, before time goes by, your back is involved in the dust trodden by horseshoes, flying like rain, with the broken shadow of the fleeting time, loving your heart and gently holding the green silk seal script.
Dissolved moonlight can't dissolve my thoughts, but I'm disappointed. I've had several dreams. Think about it. How long is this life?
Memories stretch endlessly, and autumn always leaves people with tears. Time passed slowly, which added to my worries. The moon is thinking about flowers, my thoughts will sway in the past, and everything has a silence that I have never been to.
Picking up the lost world of mortals, I clutched the moon's face in a panic, and I, leaning in front of the mottled hut of years, turned into smoke, quietly watching, the smooth and outdated texture, a line of clear tears fell like rain.
Finger flick, wearing the autumn moon in the Han Palace, the song is over, the notes are exhausted, but the feelings are gathering more and more, and it is difficult to disperse with the music.