I died in that spring, the season when the kapok was in full bloom. I watched the boy who was holding the kapok and smiling at me drift away. My heart had died long ago. I died in the first spring when you left me...
Love is not like writing a poem and turning it into a quatrain. Many times I am thinking that it would be nice if you were here. I cherish every second I spend with you. I can look back with just one word from you, but you still refuse to speak...
Intention: to torture you and cry
