Existance of every story means something
whether to crave footsteps into your heart
or to polish the already shining life
even to raise you from the bottom of a valley
they are paths, where you came from
although it might not eventually be where you belong
it's sad to know that one day everything would still looks normal without them
天晴后，身上的雨滴也在瑟瑟风中，干枯成回忆
突然想起
那一个午后
你在课室里
递给我
记不起名字的诗歌
犹记得你隽秀的字体
写着
“不是归人 只是过客”
like two straight lines that intercept only once
when I see you again,
I wave in distance,
knowing that we are in two different stories now.
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