Beautiful People

Bilingual Blog- English version is down below

“没关系啊，我会一天接着一天的爱你。”  

蒲公英正在他指缝间被揉搓。那些银白色绒毛像被击碎的月光，簌簌扑向冻出裂纹的玻璃窗。他始终攥着那项链—折射出的光斑在墙上拼出扭曲的影。  

他总在深秋的冬至前夜显形某种神性。 

当树集体叛逃绿叶时，他站在荒原中央摊开掌心，接住所有无家可归的风。褪色晚霞从他的锁骨开始侵蚀身体，混着残存的金和粉，像有人把黄昏塞进碎纸机又潦草拼贴。 他允许自己被风吹散99次，只为验证第100次是否有人伸手阻拦 。所以你暴雨中撑开外套护住那株湿漉漉的青铜蒲公英，而他，却忽然开始收集你衣褶里漏下的光。

雨燕归来那天，梧桐树枝上的巢穴缺口还有三分之一未完成。你踩着梯子往空缺处填补松果，指尖被划破也浑然不觉。但他却说这个口，是留给未来某天意外坠落的星辰  。他喝了一口保温杯里的普洱茶里，深褐漩涡浮起细小光斑——梦境里反复下坠的茶汤不过是固态化的陈旧黄昏。

你看见他胸腔里那株发光的幼苗，根系缠着昨日你说过的某句话。原来他早已把旁人的温度锻造成铠甲，却忘记金属缝隙会长出柔软的苔。当你说要换个陶土花盆，青铜蒲公英突然抖落一身冷光，茎秆弯成不可思议的弧度，轻触你手腕静脉处跳动的春天。

过了很久，你看见褪色晚霞正从他锁骨剥离，碎成金箔坠入普洱茶汤。这次，深褐漩涡里浮起他童年埋进地底的银杏叶，叶脉上的锈蚀被冲刷成新生经络。"缺口不需要星辰来填了"，他忽然把松果按进巢穴，三分之一的空洞竟吐出淡金色菌丝，将松果裹成琥珀。

冬至前夜，青铜蒲公英开始垂直生长。虽然雨燕还没归来，但却认出其中一片银白色沾着那个暴雨夜，你外套褶皱里漏下的光。

当第一片绒毛主动飘向夜空时，你们同时听见万物的声响——那株曾被锁在胸腔的幼苗，此刻正用根系撰写新的生存法则：  "所有向内的刺，终将长成朝外的枝。" 

English Version：

“It’s alright — I’ll love you, day after day.”

The dandelion was being rolled between his fingers. The silver-white fluff scattered like fragments of moonlight, falling softly against the glass window cracked by the cold. He kept gripping that necklace—the light it refracted pieced together a distorted shadow on the wall.

He always revealed a kind of divinity on the eve of the winter solstice in late autumn.

When trees collectively deserted their green leaves, he stood in the center of a barren field, opening his palm to catch every wandering wind. The faded sunset began eroding his body from the collarbone, blending leftover gold and pink, as if someone had fed dusk into a paper shredder and pasted it together again in haste. He allowed himself to be scattered by the wind ninety-nine times, only to see if on the hundredth someone would reach out to stop him. So when you spread open your coat in the downpour to protect that drenched bronze dandelion, he suddenly began collecting the light that slipped through the folds of your sleeves.

When the swifts returned, one-third of the nest on the parasol tree branch remained unfinished. You climbed the ladder to fill the gap with pinecones, your fingertips cut without realizing it. But he said the gap was left for a star that might one day fall by accident. He took a sip from his thermos of Pu’er tea; in the deep brown whirlpool, tiny specks of light surfaced—the tea that fell again and again in his dreams was nothing more than twilight turned solid.

You saw the glowing seedling inside his chest, its roots entangled around something you said yesterday. He had long forged the warmth of others into armor, forgetting that soft moss grows through the seams of metal. When you said you wanted to change to a clay pot, the bronze dandelion suddenly shook off its cold light. The stem bent into an impossible arc, gently brushing against the vein at your wrist where spring still beat.

After a long time, you saw the faded sunset peeling away from his collarbone, breaking into gold leaf that sank into the Pu’er tea. This time, from the dark brown whirlpool surfaced a ginkgo leaf he had buried underground in childhood, its rusted veins washed into living lines. “The hollow no longer needs a star,” he said suddenly, pressing the pinecone into the nest. From the remaining third of the empty space, threads of pale golden mycelium emerged, wrapping the pinecone into amber.

On the eve of the winter solstice, the bronze dandelion began to grow straight upward. The swifts had not yet returned, but among its silver-white fluff was one strand still carrying the light that had slipped through the folds of your coat that stormy night.

When the first tuft of fluff drifted into the night sky on its own, you both heard the sound of everything—the seedling once locked inside his chest was now writing a new law of survival with its roots: “All the inward thorns will one day grow into outward branches.”