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Joined
Mar 22, 2025
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Turning off the lights of the corridor, putting down my schoolbag, walking to my room, looking out the window, I recall the newly-bought book titled "Iron-Box of the Peninsula".
Beside the bed lies open the 1st, 6th, 7th page of its prelude;
I never expected you to leave, after having read it with me.

No more, not ever again, nor could I see it now: the keyhole of the iron box has a light shining through, and I can tell it has rusted in its old age.

So, so old, I am covered in the dust from its outsides,
So, so dark, and to this box I cannot find the key.


(bridge)

Beside the candies lie sweet memories, which I truly desire to reminisce, before it had filtered us out, in a tragedy which grew beautiful.
Encased in the box is the happiness you once brought me.
I so much want to remember but I'm unable:

(chor.)

Why is it like this? You tugged on my hand, expressing a tinge of doubt.
How did it turn out this way? The rain hasn't even stopped, yet you wish to depart under an umbrella.
Already, I have built a habit of letting you go free, of being unrestricted, and assuming that with enough time you would willing return.
It really seems as though my idea of love, deems it unable to withstand the test of time.

Why is it like this? You take a look at me, and tell me you have already decided.
I cannot hold onto you any longer; it seems like his hands are warmer than mine.
The iron box's prelude has become an entry within my diary, first turned to air, than into memories.
It seems as though my idea of love, cannot withstand the test of time,

That is why you gave up.



.
 
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