Hanabira

Reaching the bottom of my mug, like sugar cubes, I’m in this kind of love.
Feeling like a rusty keyhole, it’s not so bad, I laugh a lot.

After three months, even lips get boring, playing with the fire of a lawsuit.
What about us in six months? Holding hands without a promise, I won’t let go.

Invited by the season of falling petals, we were tied together.
When did we change? That’s all I think about, and the answer is:

I want to see you.

Contrary to my growing feelings, I’m lacking in honesty, caught in this love.
You’re getting prettier, but I can’t hold you beautifully; my confusion eventually broke through.

On our first anniversary, deep in your black hair, I was soaked with determination.

Back in this place where the April breeze smells sweet, we wonder if we’ll forget.
The hands we held, the hands we let go, today’s memories.

Starting tomorrow, we’ll have separate days. I ask you, please don’t forget, don’t forget.

Invited by the season of scattered petals, we’ve been scattered apart.
When did we change? That’s all I think about, and the answer is:

Goodbye.