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I gently fold the cool summer breeze into my pocket and carry it with me through the busy streets.
Running on iced coffee and sunshine.
Running my fingers along the spines of a shelf of vintage postcards, I wonder about the stories behind each scribbled note—lovers separated, friends reunited, dreams shared across miles.
Until the boiling water poured into the passion like fire life and tea fragrance overflowing flowers
The feeling of jumping and flying, rekindled in the wine.
Love is the bitter soup of the heart, always have not had time to share with others to go to tea cool. I miss the past, but I just miss myself in the past, miss the past that young twee.
Love is the bitter soup of the heart, always have not had time to share with others to go to tea cool. I miss the past, but I just miss myself in the past, miss the past that young twee.