When we first met, we just looked at each other, and the hand we held could never be put down again.
The flowers blooming on the street are a dream that is expected but out of reach. Drunk in the dream, drunken life and death.
Cowardly love cannot resist the temptation of power. When you let go, you realize that what you have been holding is your own heart.
He put a wedding dress on you, but pushed it into someone else's arms. Should you love him or hate him?
If you call him father, do you only treat him as a relative?
Yes, the ultimate destination of love is relatives, but he doesn't understand.
Later that night, what I got in return for my relentless accusation was regret. How could I blame the deceased person for not being able to understand my own heart?
When the flowers bloom, they will eventually wither, and when people leave, they will be forgotten.
Why can't that memory go with him?