If memory is a river slowly flowing toward forgetfulness, then I have already sunk into the moment when you and I met.
Just like the lights reflecting the twilight, your figure has been painted by time into the most beautiful picture, burned in my eyes, and softening my years to come.
I met you in the midsummer of July.
I have walked through the rushing crowds, walked through the jagged shadows of trees, and crossed the most difficult gap in time and space, and finally met you.
Your kite-purple eyes reflect the flowers and sea in the whole world. I wish to sleep in your gentle ocean and never wake up.