However, peeking reluctantly from between his fingers, he saw a pious kiss falling on Verlaine's palm.
No blood, no broken palms. After the kiss, there was no trace. Only a blur of red was left behind, like sunlight with nowhere to escape.
Looking at the moment when Rimbaud's moving lips were covered with white cloth, I couldn't stop choking.
Good things always fade so quickly, and I have to watch them die. This is more cruel than total renunciation. For a split second I was almost certain I was in love with him, and yet he fell and I was elsewhere, unable to even touch his cold body.
When the ending song played, I suddenly felt very calm, as if all the heart-piercing pain just now belonged to me. After eating, he met a senior who looked exactly like Rimbaud on the road, and excitedly grabbed his companion's hand tightly, not knowing how to keep his burning gaze.
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