When I was three years old, he and I walked through the golden fields barefoot, breaking open and sharing 50-cent orange popsicles.
When I was twelve years old, he and I came home from school and watched the golden afterglow disappearing on the horizon together.
When I was eighteen years old, we met again. When he turned his head to kiss my eyes at the beach, his breath was warm and dry.
When I was twenty-four, our bodies were intertwined and we were rubbing against each other behind the blackout curtains on the 18th floor of Building A12.
These things are called memories, and together they constitute our golden home that no one will ever sink.
Love is a luxury product.
The real me only has a little love, a little golden, immortal love that comes from nursery rhymes, a love that I dare not admit.
Maybe that's not love.
Purpose: live a good life