We played misplaced notes on the keys of time, and the most critical beats were missed during the embrace of the chorus - it turns out that love is not a single cycle, and the melody that missed the tuning period was eventually scattered into two seasons of wet rain.
The first encounter at seventeen degrees is like spring floods flowing over the ankles, and the kiss mark at twenty-seven is like a shell after the ebb tide.
It took us three years to learn to get closer, three minutes to exhaust eternity, and finally we stood as two lighthouses behind the cordon of friendship - always watching, always separated by a whole turbulent dawn.
Intention: Memories