Some love affairs should be allowed to fade on the manuscript paper. It is better than letting the dark green rust grow when the memory condenses into amber at midnight, like rime that locks the wrists and becomes entangled shackles, year after year, without beginning or end.
Author: My girl is naughty and sensitive. The saddest thing about her is that she looks forward to love but doubts it at the same time. Someone once gave her an experience that was not pure. She also worshiped the man's palm prints devoutly, mistaking the rotten wood grain of the ferry for an oracle. Now she has learned to store the moonlight in the hollow of her collarbone, and use the oar polished by her own bones to cut through the river whose destiny is as sticky as asphalt.
Intention: No need to miss, no need to look forward to