The cold food is approaching, and the Qingming Festival is not coming, and the peach blossoms are blooming in full bloom in front of the grave.

The drizzle is like silk, gathering the mountains far and near, and threads are woven diagonally on your white clothes.

The water on the ground spreads out mud marks, and the peach blossom petals fall, dipped in dust, like the undried tears on her sick bed.

You and her were wearing white clothes, standing in front of the grave.

Your beloved woman is sleeping underground, and you...

Let’s just live a life of silence in the world.

You thought about this endlessly, and the wine pot in your hand fell to the ground without realizing it.

The bottom of the pot hit the tombstone, fell into the mud, splashing red.

But you didn't bow your head, just kicked away the fragments and swallowed the smell of alcohol in your throat.

Your eyes fell on the square white stone tombstone:

The tomb of the beloved wife Zhuo Qingbox.

Every time you see these seven words, your heart will feel an indescribable tear-like severe pain.

Like a nail, nailed to your sternum, embedded deeper with each breath.

You lowered your head and stared at the stone tablet, scraping your eyes down inch by inch, as if you were about to scrape out a little temperature from the cold stone, but the more you looked, the more you became empty and the more you were confused.

You even began to be confused: Did you carry it into the coffin that day, not her?

Is it hidden in the coffin just a shell?

Otherwise, how could she be willing to leave?

How could you bear to throw you into this world and wake up crying every night?

She clearly knows that you are afraid of coldness, fear of tranquility, and fear that only the wind blows and lights are left in the empty house.

But she left anyway.

That night she died in your arms, and your heart seemed to be half taken away by her.

And the remaining half is now getting moldy, rotten, and worms bit by bit.

You didn't hold an umbrella or tie your hair. You just had a long sword stuck in your waist, and you looked unrestrained and depressed.

The jade tripod stands behind you, holding an umbrella for you, and is dressed in white, better than snow.

There were still tears on her eyes, the bruises on her face had not melted, but there was not a piece of good meat on her body.

Dingshui Villa was destroyed and Qingqian died of illness, she had been married to you for three years.

You pulled her into the room when you were drunk, you bit her shoulder and begged her, "Can you come and serve her?"

It was you who told her all the beautiful promises in the world, using both soft and hard, and swearing that you would be good to her.

But as soon as you drink wine and think of your deceased wife, all these promises are torn apart so easily by you.

If you ask her to practice meditation for her cousin and don’t let her say a word, if she accidentally says something, you will be angry; if you ask her to wear her old clothes, learn from the demeanor and pace of the green box, you will be angry if you make a mistake; even when you are in love, you will pull her hard, not wanting to call her name, but instead use the green box to replace it.

How should her lips be soft?

Like a green box.

You hold her chin, and always close your eyes when you get close, imagining the tender and bright red lips of the pair of cherry lips, and tremble as if you touch it.

She dared not resist, and even dared not breathe too much.

But the eyelashes were hanging, like the person you couldn't call back thousands of times in your dream.

You pull her into your arms, kiss her, pinch her, let her pant against you, but you don't allow her to say a word.

You hate her not, and you hate her too much.

You remember that her body had not yet become so scarred. Her waist was as soft as water, and she could wrap her around her body with a wet and hot fragrance, like a peach that had just ripened, and the juice had not flowed, but the smell was thicker.

You like her tears.

She bit her lip and endured it, but you insisted on prying it open with your own hands, making her tremble under your fingers and moan under your lips.

You stroked the smooth skin on her chest, your lips pressed against her ears and murmured: "Qing Box...Don't leave."

She shivered, and her breath surged between your neck, like a little beast wet with tears, and she could endure the crying.

You know she is not.

But you seemed paranoid and insisted that she pretend to be like her.

When she cried, you kissed her, hugged her, and pressed her harder, so that you could get the green box back in this way - even if it was just that shell, the warm, submissive, moist, and silent shell.

As long as your fingertips slowly and stubbornly sink into that soft place, you can feel her body instinctively tightening and resisting, and tears quietly slipping from the corners of her eyes.

She couldn't scream, but her legs couldn't help but tremble.

You pressed her whole body into the bedding, gasped and pressed her hands, and pressed her forehead against her neck: "You are her, aren't you?"

She didn't answer, she just cried.

……

How violent and evil you are.

But you are so gentle when you don't drink. Holding her and coaxing her with warm words, admitting her mistakes with a soft voice, and then she felt a lot of tenderness and sweetness, and she apologized for everything, as if there was no better wife than you in heaven and earth.

That was what you looked like when she was in her first love. She knew at a glance that you were the one she liked.

She likes you the most when you don't drink.

Unfortunately, you have fewer and fewer days of sobering, and more and more violent times.

Gradually, she had your broken cup, your kicked potted plants, and your swollen palm prints, and no part of it was intact.

When you wake up, you will apply the wound very gently to her, but it is not as good as you hurt.

So how can old injuries be healed with new injuries?

Here, the jade tripod holds an umbrella, standing in the rain with a sad look, wanting to help you, but dare not move.

The care in her eyes was so full that it was about to overflow, but she just glanced at you with a timid look.

You raised your hand and tugged her wrist so hard that you almost broke the bone.

She said "ah" and noticed that she had lost her words for a moment, so she immediately held back and said nothing.

You pulled her into your arms, kissed her cheek randomly, and said, "Can you come and serve her, okay?"

She nodded, and tears fell down.

But you immediately blushed and whispered, "I'm sorry..."

You, who are so violent and hateful, are best at making such a gentle and pitiful attitude afterwards and begging her for forgiveness.

How many times have similar scenes been staged?

You can't remember it.

You gently pulled her hand, and for a moment you felt that she had lost a lot of weight recently.

Those beautiful eyes of phoenix eyes are no longer the vivid and brightness of your memory, but are filled with grievances, depression, grief and depression.

You said dryly: "Yu Ding...I'm still..."

She shook her head and looked into your eyes like a dark pool: "I'll wait for you."

She is always like this, quiet, intelligent and considerate.

So your heart falls into an indescribable pain and depression.

……

Suddenly there was a loud noise in the sky, and you felt a violent electric current all over your body passing through your limbs and bones, causing pain to your heart, and then you lost consciousness.

It seems that God can't stand you, a scumbag in domestic violence. The 9999 thunder struck you to death, and wiped out all the memories of the Jade Ding about you.

She will never shed a tear for you, a scumbag who is a domestic violence scum, and she will never.