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It's as if confined to the radius of this night, the walls of my heart come crashing down. I establish a solitary city in the ruins, a difficult choice, Uncle or Qiao Yue? I look at him, the dog's eyes round and bright, full of misty enthusiasm, firm and high-spirited, hoping - he will never betray me, he will never give up on me, this sincere and wet-looking, pitiful yet trustworthy.
"Do you like me?" Pinching his chin, I almost lean in for his lips, for a slight pleasure, the butterflies fluttering diligently, carrying a bit of overly sensitive pain. Uncle, pulled into the dark queue by the rainy night, we will always remember this day.
Life, sometimes numb, more often, when the forest is planted at the bottom of the heart lake, the unpredictable thing is no longer the lake water, but only the mood of the forest.
I always have a morbid sentiment for tulips. In spring, I traveled alone to a manor for vacation, not a luxurious medieval castle in Europe. On the contrary, it was dilapidated, old, with only the scars left by the passage of time. The only attraction was the large, full and vibrant tulips growing in the manor. Tulips, sweet and elegant, deeply touched my heart, but they became the sacrificial victims of European nobles' curiosity and flaunting of wealth, leaving behind the most famous speculative term in world financial history, "tulip bubble."
I really like tulips. I gave him all kinds of flowers, such as jasmine, red roses, white lilies, and a variety of tulips. Tulips are splendid and flamboyant, passionate and pure. No other flower has captivated me like this. Just like the beautiful Qiao Yue, it makes me speak insincerely and softly say "love." He shouldn't fail to notice this crack, he deliberately fails to notice it, often using pleading words—asking me not to look at him like this again.
Our eyes are direct, often revealing too much insincere truth.
"Do you only love this one flower? If this flower wilts and is no longer beautiful, will you still love it?"
Am I trembling because of this? What kind of answer should I give? We are so miserable, entangled in such misery, all because of a detestable red silk underskirt, a foolish tail ring, and my own arrogant and closed heart. People love beauty, they admire natural grace, but my uncle does not fit into this category."
My uncle Qiao Yue, this flower has been carefully crafted. He used to be just like most people, deeply trapped in the well of withering. I don't care about the beauty of talent, because he is beautiful now, comparable to all the beauty of talent. I saw the rough appearance of the flower before it was decorated, the rough grains were obviously not beautiful, my pupils must have dilated uncontrollably—Qiao Yue wanted to kiss me, for the first time his actions were so irresistible, I was forcibly pressed against the wall of the bookshelf, one hand behind my head, and the other freely holding my waist. I was like a book, imprisoned in Qiao Yue's uncontrollable eyes, and suddenly I realized: he is a man, not a weak and feeble flower, he clearly has always had more strength than me.
Before becoming a flower, before becoming an attractive flower, how did he live? What does he belong to, when he is everywhere, ordinary, and even a bit ugly due to roughness? My butterfly, my tulip, how can I describe this unadorned "reality" enough to show that I have loved Qiao Yue?
Time often relieves all life of confusion, because time is often the eternal ultimate answer. Although the white hair makes me feel bewildered, his black and beautiful face always flashes before my eyes, the flower of my youth, blooming beautifully in the deep well of withering. Only a lonely butterfly surrounds him, and that butterfly is me, willingly dedicating freedom, soul, and everything for beauty.
The photo fell from the pages and slipped from my fingertips again - he snatched the photo, thinking it was evidence that we couldn't love each other. In fact, I don't care about his appearance in the past. When I met Qiao Yue, he looked like this, always so beautiful. My fingers traced Qiao Yue's nose, which was beautifully done. I kissed his eyes, and in an instant, butterfly wings fluttered, and his eyes shone like mineral-like brilliance.
From which moment did I fall for pure beauty? I'm afraid even I dare not believe how important appearances can be.
Qiao Yue, he is a man. I have never felt his strength so strongly before. The eruption of emotions seems to only need a kiss to be connected and broken. I gaze at his sorrow, unbelievably shielding his eyes that are soaked with too much worry. No wonder his eyes are so full of sorrow and sadness. If it weren't for this body, would he have a chance?
After artificial carving, what does beauty really mean? But we all know that the abnormal development of butterflies is beautiful enough.
Finally we leave our homeland, the black earth.
Uncle must be a free butterfly, flying with scars all over, the scars whispering around him, successfully escaping the earth, dancing in the poetry on my pen tip.
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