Shooting stars streak across the black sky, hands are folded, and the love thread in the palms is entangled in whose youth is it?
The corner of her mouth was curved, and she made a wish quietly, hoping to meet the right person, the shining star, one day in the future. She was willing to carve a blooming rose that never fades in the prosperous flower season, a memory of her high school days.
The lights flickered on the collision between him and her for the first time, the most unforgettable glimpse on the green grass; running hand in hand in the pouring rain, as if he and she were the only ones left in the world; the horizon was so far away, the setting sun stood in the shallows, the silver-gray bicycle slowly slid along the long downhill, and the white gleam in the eyes was his broad back.
In a corner of Naples, the paintbrushes in my hands dropped one after another. I missed the warmth of his palms and the contours of his eyebrows. It took me a year to fall in love with him, but it would take me a lifetime to forget him. Paint a scene of youthful pure love, write an ending for his and her story, and sleep silently in the memories of the wind and snow. He and she can only perform conversion in their youth.
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PS: slow writing.