I am your first mandola

The autumn rain makes people want to sleep gently in this season instead of getting up. Sunshine hasn’t come to my balcony for a long time, just like the person who reads it, he has forgotten the way to come or leave, and he doesn’t know where he is. I lie at the window and look at the sea of people flowing in the river. The tide is surging. I imagine that you may be dissolved in it. The lonely shadow can’t find its place in dull weather. My eyes are blurred. Holding the hand that only wrote love letters for you, I left myself in the rainy season in the South. The chrysanthemum in the cold rain is like a proud gentleman, unyielding to humidity, quietly waiting in the tunnel of time. I know that under that umbrella, I can’t open the flowers you approve after all. One day, you should say the mandola, which is so enchanting and makes people want to give out incense. I want to say that I can also give out the colors in your life, but the passion you don’t have is blooming in my world. Whenever I see the open chestnut on your chest, I guess our future must be the wind and rain, you have the stimulation of your life, and those fatal temptations are the open desires in all life. You asked me: Do you have it? The sea in my eyes is filled with the salty taste of my sorrow. I lowered my head and left a blank of your favorite hair on my neck. I know you like the look of my low eyebrows, but I don’t love my sad and soft style. We went half of love. You didn’t turn back, but I let my heart ache bend down the years before moving forward. On that day, the sunshine had not faded its glory all over the sky. I used the blade I bought to stab you in your once proud chest over and over again, the sharp mouth reminds me of the knife you have headwear in my heart. The pain at that time brought happiness at this time, I watched drops of red liquid rushing from every place of my body to gather in this small centimeter hole and erupt outward, just like the bus subway we crowded, you snuggled up to you according to me, sticky body, and so did these bright liquids. They opened different flowers outside my body. Although the heat was slowly getting cold, like the rain in this season, when they are still in the air, whether to keep the lingering warmth of 37 degrees, and then fall in the air, may deice, may Derain. I don’t want them to be as active outside my body as in my body. I just hope that a mandala will always be opened on my white eagle’s chest, which will be opened covidly, with attractive petals and deadly fragrance like the devil, one day I will show the warmth of winter under your body. You should be mocking, you will abuse me like a delicate rose. But you know, I just revived those mandalas you think. You asked me: how did you fall like this? I can no longer say I love you in my smoky red lips. The red dust is you, and the red dust without you is just the world. I am the product of the world and the enchanting mandola. But on rainy days, I was still standing on the windowsill, looking at the alley where you came in, with a floral umbrella covering your hurried body. When I looked through the autumn water, the rain fell into my eyes, after the flood comes the flood. And my posture is to raise the intoxicating wine glass in one hand and the cigarette butt with broken heart in the other hand. The Red Lips are traces of your kiss. There are traces of Mandala you like on your chest, and the traces are old, flowers have withered, love, you are no longer coming.

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