Scars of Love Story
On the playground, a few tall poplar trees stand. They’re about twenty meters high, and you can only see their treetops brushing against the gentle breeze and drifting clouds when you tilt your head back. A bird flies by softly—where have all those sweet words gone?
The poplar tree trunks are marked with scars, weathered by time, and the words carved into them have long since become unrecognizable. Yet, the names once etched deeply into the heart, gently stirred up the most beautiful ripples. Now, as you look back, those days seem to still bloom on the petals of the silk trees.
The time spent together always felt so short, with laughter and tears binding the memories. The moonlight back then wore a veil, mysterious like a figure walking at night in splendid attire. The figure of a boy in a white shirt hovered on the path, his shadow swaying under the starlight, elusive like a grain of sand that slips through your fingers.
A face with wheat-colored skin, eyes filled with melancholy, silently gazing at the slowly flowing river. A letter is tucked inside a book, the pages turning, drifting from one to another, as a heart full of unrest wanders restlessly in the years of youth. All the light words on the page can’t compare to a single glance that makes the heart skip a beat. The secret lies in the shy avoidance of eye contact, where the tumult of feelings is hidden. “In the vast reeds, with frost upon the white dew. The one I long for is just across the river.” What else, besides burning passion, could be wrapped in these endlessly repeated verses?
During the rainy season, running across the playground, a sorrowful violin melody floats in the air. No matter how many times one looks forward, the road always seems to stretch endlessly. The silk flowers fall quietly, and under a small umbrella, the brilliance fades, leaving behind a ground of mottled memories. Flowers bloom and fall; yesterday has gone.
The mind, full of uncertainty, finds that a prelude hasn’t even begun before it reaches its end. Misunderstanding, like a tangled mess of threads, forcefully tears apart the connections. Passing by, turning left, turning right. The lotus in the rain sways alone—who will take responsibility for the love that lingers?
When the curtain falls, sing out loud, for you walked that path together. The names on the poplar trees are crooked and jagged, engraved in the weathered lines of time, leaving no way back. The days that hurt like a tattoo are lost in the howling wind.
Open a blank page, and the black ink of a fountain pen flows across it like a river. Write down the notes of the story, write down the longing that can never be returned to. The moonlight dances on the pen’s tip, and the silent night becomes a dreamy sail. Cross to the other shore and see the fleeting beauty of the mandala flowers.
Perhaps it’s better to turn around and become a fish, secretly understanding the loneliness of the sea and the resilience of the rocks. Eternity isn’t built in a day, and growth requires the courage to break free from the cocoon and become a butterfly. Only by shedding the greenness can one cross the vast ocean.
A persimmon becomes sweet only after frost. From the first fruit of early summer, it endures the scorching heat of the sun, the fierce washing of autumn winds, and finally, the frost of late autumn gives it the most moving color. Only time can brew the nectar of life.
To love isn’t everything; to stop loving isn’t the end. Look down at the road beneath your feet, and lift your head to see a vast blue sky above.
The clouds are the wings of angels.
Autumn isn’t the end of brilliance, but rather the charm of settling down. When life reaches autumn, there’s no need for sighs or sorrow, for just ahead lies a magnificent spring feast. The scars of love are merely a watershed in youth. The left hand reflects the past, the right hand holds the future, and our youth shines brightly!
Those tall poplar trees have long since spread their canopies, with every leaf singing in the breeze. Gently touching their trunks feels like touching the unfading black-and-white photos of our youthful years. All the emotions are transformed into lasting memories…
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
