In the dream, the sound of the flute is still there. I search for it, but it is so close but so far away. The clouds and mist that cannot be pushed away cannot see the tenderness in your looking back.
I don't want to wake up from the dream and not see your face, even the only trace of your back.
That moment, instantly solidified into eternity.
The fireworks are bright, reflecting your magnificent face, as if it were a lifetime ago.
Fireworks get cold easily, and your features are picturesque, but they are too cold to see my presence.
When the song is over, the tea is gone. You can't hear the noise left behind when I turn around, but my face is already cold.