Time flows on to the other side, years pass like frost.

     On the other side of fleeting years, time

    slips through my fingers like frost. Looking back, I chase the footsteps of time, gently leaning against your window, seemingly real yet unreal, like a shadow following me. Bend over my desk, memories flow from my pen, ink fragrant, a life shattered. Like a blank sheet of paper, I gently pick up my pen, using the most delicate words to depict your weary face, writing only you into my life. What cannot be fully written is a single sheet of love, yet what is fully written is the splendor of the world.

    Before the falling petals, under the bright moon, I held your hand, picking flowers; on the way home, frost covered the ground. Quietly watching you, brushing through branches and leaves, wandering on the other side of fleeting years, washing away my one-sided love. In the cold autumn, I count the past scenes again and again, indifferently, tears streaming down my face, my eyes filled with sorrow. Unforgettable, nothing more than helplessness.

    Let me leave behind a melody of longing, dancing with the autumn moon, drinking alone in the autumn frost. Fallen leaves always habitually enact the dreams of parting. In late autumn, beneath ancient trees, I raise my head and see only desolation; in a moment of contemplation, clouds drift a thousand miles away, the moonlight is like frost, the returning geese are silent, only I am on my way home. Fleeting years are like a dream, prosperity is like white silk. Leaning alone on the balcony, I gaze at the vast sea of ​​people. The moon's shadow is fleeting, the passersby gradually disappear. In those countless turns and twists, your glance back freezes in an instant, and I can vaguely see the slightly upturned corners of your mouth, thus touching my heartstrings.

    Perhaps we should never have met, perhaps we were always destined to pass each other by. But fate allowed me to glance at you one more time, and from then on, we were separated by an unbridgeable distance, gazing at each other from afar. At the end of time, I watch the fleeting figures of the past, but you have never appeared. The flowers bloom, but you are not there; the flowers wither, and you still miss me. Through countless seasons, you have fallen to the ground, leaving only the fragrance of this season and a lingering affection. That waiting is like a seed buried for a thousand years; you have never appeared, so how can it blossom and bear fruit?

    Willow catkins, like frost, bloom alone, enamored with the vibrancy of spring, accompanied only by their own shadow, guarding the cold winter night. Waiting in vain, only to be met with no return, only deep affection remains, but at its deepest point, the ice and snow melt away. I would rather live my life like this, I would rather be just a withered leaf that once drifted unintentionally before you, and you would simply smile, letting the wind carry it away, forgetting it on the other side of memory, where it once had its most beautiful encounter.

    I once stood atop the city wall, watching silently as I turned and left, my thoughts drifting with the wind. In the late autumn, memories are always so poignant. As for you, whether you come or not, it doesn't matter. I miss you and I worry about you. Perhaps, only in this kind of waiting and watching can I stir up the long-dormant longing in my heart. For a lifetime, I will quietly wither away in dreams and waiting.