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外链地址
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This cobalt vow grows cold against my palm,
Firing in kilns where goodbyes etch their psalm.
Our parting days drip like underglaze blue,
Brushing the cracks with memories of you.
This wound won't glaze—raw clay still bleeds beneath,
Every ghost-fired kiss chokes the air I breathe.
O turn not your head—
Your glance is a shard
That cuts through the hush!
This porcelain night
Shatters where we stood...
Holding blue shrapnel
Where promise once grew wood.
Ash-glazed hours stack in the moon's cold hold,
Dusting the blisters from stories we sold.
That crackle in stillness—our last embrace sound,
Echoing through this tomb without ground.
No celadon rain can seal what we broke,
Just phantom glazes on hope's hollow yoke.
O turn not your head—
Your profile's a blade
That slits the mute dawn!
This jar of lost years
Splinters where we vowed...
Gripping blue fractures
Where future's sapling bowed.
O... turn...
Your... glance...
Is...
A... KILN... EXPLODING!