Love is a tacit understanding: although my body does not have bright phoenix wings, I can feel the harmonious heartbeat of the sacred unicorn.
Love is a painting: when you, my love, ride a bamboo horse, run in circles and throw your childhood.
Love is a chance encounter: when a girl meets her, she wins the favor of countless people.
Love is a declaration: till death do us part!
Love is an agreement: the monarch should be a rock and the concubine a reed; Puwei is as tough as silk, and the rocks are not transferred.
Love is an oath: the mountains have no edges, and the heavens and the earth are in harmony, so I dare to leave you!
Love is a vision: I wish people a long life and a thousand miles of beauty.
Love is a kind of persistence: the wider the clothes are, the more people will never regret it and will languish for Iraq.
Love is a kind of loyalty: once the sea was difficult for water, except Wushan, not a cloud.
Love is a farewell: holding hands and looking at each other with tears, but I am speechless and choked.
Love is a kind of watch: there are peaches and plums in the small garden, leaving flowers for you to return.
Love is a kind of yearning: I wish you to take more as a symbol of our love.
Love is Chen Jiao: If you don't miss me, is there no one else?
Love is a trace of melancholy: spring is still old, people are empty and thin, and tears are red.
Love is a perfect couple: my lady and my gentleman.
Love is a sigh: although there is a mountain alliance, the brocade book is hard to believe.
Love is a comforting word: if two kinds of feelings last for a long time, it will be a matter of time.
Love is a response: throw me peaches and return me Qiong Yao.
Love is a kind of sorrow: forbearance in the earth and forbearance in the sky; One day both will end, and this endless sadness will last forever.
Love is a kind of melancholy: a cup of melancholy, a few years apart. No! No! No!
Love is a kind of resentment: the Tatar song on her jade guitar respects resentment.
Love is an obsession: life is naturally infatuated, and this hatred has nothing to do with romance.
Love is a kind of nostalgia: heartbroken every year, short roots on a moonlit night.
Love is a puzzle: what is love in the world? It's killing me.
Love is an eternal swan song: silkworms in spring will keep spinning until they die, and candles will cry dry every night.