When I was seventeen years old, I met Shen Yuan in the used book section of the library.
She was reading "The Book of Songs" and when she read "When I see a gentleman, Yunhu is not happy", she suddenly raised her head and smiled at me. At that moment I thought I was the one illuminated by that poem. Later I found out that she just liked that poem.
Shen Yuan is a person who can write poetry. On the cover of her thread-bound notebook, there are three words "Paper Kite Collection" written in small letters. She told me about the plants, birds and animals in the Book of Songs, and about Li Shangyin's untitled poems. Her voice was like a stream flowing over smooth stones. The only thing I know how to do is listen silently and secretly write down every line of poetry she reads in the corner of a history book, like a person who only deserves to watch other people's stories.
There were many things she didn't know.
She didn't know that I picked up the scraps she had dropped from "The Collection of Paper Kite" one by one, flattened them, and put them in the "Fifteen Years of Wanli". She didn't know that the margins of my textbook were filled with poems she had recited casually, with the date and weather marked next to each line. She also didn't know that I had tried to write a poem, tore it up, tore it up and wrote it, and finally left only one sentence: "You are a paper kite and I am a crane. One has wires and the other has feet, but neither can fly."
The only thing we have in common is our love for those old sentences. But she is a kite on the clouds, and I am a crane in the mud. Every poem she read reminded me that there was more than just a bookshelf between us.
In my senior year of high school, I cut this thread with my own hands.
"Shen Yuan, don't read poems to me again in the future."
She only replied with one word: "Okay."
Concept: The kite takes poetry as its wings, and the crane perches toward the light.