Love is a conspiracy, like a moth flying into a flame.
Love is waiting and heartbreaking.
Love is cause and effect, whatever the cause is, the result will be the same.
Love was a look in his eyes many years ago, and it was an orchid that had just been shaped into shape by her fingertips. It bloomed like fire like tea and withered silently.
Love is the person in her dreams for many years, his back on the high mountain, and his words that he should return in life and die in love.
Love is missing, it is her charm.
Love is feud, her tenderness and affection.
Love is her first look at a charming city and then a charming country.
Love is a person he hides in his heart, a woman he misses year after year, but in the end wilts as quickly as a flower.
Love is that he traveled across mountains and rivers just to tell her a story, that he went through hardships just to find a bouquet of night flowers that could be used as medicine for her, and that when he wanted to grow old with her day and night, she was broken into countless pieces in his arms.
Intention: None