The mortal world holds three thousand weak streams, yet I would drink from only one.
But when I think back on us from our youth until now, spending every day and night together, we somehow never exchanged a single keepsake. The peach blossoms I gave you have crumbled to dust, and the silk letter you gave me was consumed by fire.
Between us, it is as if we had never met at all, nothing but a dream of golden millet.
A short piece I wrote a long time ago. Bad ending.
Theme:
It's bl, it should be