When the silhouette of time passed through my fingertips, in the darkness, the rain drifted outside the window and cooled the spring. The prosperity withered and the past stories were hurt in the wind.

With the rotation of the seasons, that year, the gardenias bloomed, and there was a slight smile on your face. When the sky blended with water, I stood there and looked up at the azure, at the distance where you belonged. 

Years were fleeting, and in a blink of an eye, it was another year. I had gone through springs and autumns, and my blurred eyes turned into my longing for you. Recalling your once face, I wished you all the best. 

The seemingly distant years were only as short as a distance of fireworks, like a meteor in the sky, told the thousands of love and grievances, and never hid the vicissitudes of life. Mottled thoughts were engraved in the desolate historical clouds, like a flash in the pan, leaving only a deep sense of melancholy and helplessness. 

I liked windows, I always felt that windows were the source of dreams. The scenes in the dream were gorgeous silence and tranquility. I often sat in front of the window, picked up the bits and pieces of the past and put them away properly, and let them sleep peacefully. When the wind blew, I woke them up gently and watched the flowers bloom and fall with me.

You said it was a beautiful mistake to meet me, and you would rather be wrong over and over again. Perhaps, at the moment of meeting, the misery and loneliness of this life were doomed. The flowers on the other side are blooming, wading through the smoke and cold pavilion, the fragrance of the flowers has a vague shadow, and the heart was lost in the moments that seemed to be abandoned. The meager happiness came leisurely. We walked in silence, watching a clear moon hanging in the clouds far away. I waited, hoped, and expected, until the twilight slowly faded.

The faint moonlight swept away the turmoil and gave the world a dark blue. The lights on the riverbank, like the dust of a dream, flickering with hope, pulling the tenderness in my heart, to find a reason to go to the ends of the earth with you.

Would the moonlight in the city illuminate the dream? Would the lights of the two cities meet at the desired distance? In the trance, there was a mournful sound of the flute from afar, and the young man who was chasing the wind, his clothes fluttering, seemed to be still wandering in the bright moon of the bridges.

Remember that day, I asked you if one day I suddenly disappeared, what you would do.

“Wait for your return.”

I was silent for a long time, speechless. 

Waiting is a kind of loneliness, loneliness is a kind of color. The lonely moon of the stars knows it, and the caring heart in the dream knows it. I have always believed that the people who fell into the world are dependent on inextricable care. In this life, they are destined to be lonely in waiting. I like to use my heart to talk to time under the moon, to reach beyond the world, and banish my long thoughts. In the fleeting fireworks, I embraced you in a time of poverty.