I know Milan's love is blooming again, but it can't be explained by words. You come over and stop across the red light. My blurred eyes are wet with rain, and love always stays on your lips, but your figure is like a lark. I turned around and let the sunshine still love each other, but actually they are each other's wings. You can fly freely in my mind. I'm not depressed anymore. Love is no longer destroyed by wind and rain. You heard my nonsense in your dream. I opened the window quietly. Love is that purple light. Scarf, the way you smile, I have carefully collected it for several years, and love will not dry up. You are always in the wave of happiness. How can we delete and copy love and grow into a tree? You look for tenderness in the wind, and I cry in great love. You are the beautiful fog in autumn. I was lovelorn and sprouted in the wet spring. You have something called happiness in your hand. I want to tell you that my story love was written into a book after n years, and you became a faithful book after n years. Dear readers, I may have returned to my planet. Love spreads in another world. You are always waiting for the meteor on the horizon. I can feel the joy and confusion of growing up. Love is quietly hidden in a page of that Chinese book. Every time you look back, I can understand that love is no longer the expectation of that 18 year old girl. In the autumn of a foreign country, in the forest full of fallen leaves, I still love you, but with another kind of care. I miss that spring. Years later, I can still dream that your love is blurred into a fragrant consciousness. You still smile as you did a few years ago. I'm still trembling about it. Love is written by me as a beautiful poem. You put music to every sentence. I play the bamboo flute. In this way, love spread gracefully to the upper reaches of the Yangtze River. You held a clear river in your hand and saw my eyes.