Missing prose

As for the prose about missing, everyone has his own things and things to miss, and different people have different views on missing. Some people think that missing is a beautiful loneliness, while others think that missing is a happy sadness. Share it with everyone. Some people think that missing is a kind of happiness and sadness!

About Missing Prose 1 If it weren't for last night's dream, I don't know when this blog will be updated. I closed my eyes for a long time, and Ling's face blurred. But in last night's dream, Ling seemed to be by my side, and even I could hear breathing ... very helpless.

How I wish Ling could stay in my castle and worry about all the customs I have. Now, I can only write some familiar or unfamiliar words to let the real tears flow.

Some people say that missing is a beautiful loneliness. Loneliness is especially beautiful only when people miss it.

Some people think that missing is a kind of happy sadness, a kind of sweet melancholy and a kind of warm pain. Missing is also a long-term obsession with yesterday and yearning for a better future. Because in endless thoughts, people's feelings have been purified and sublimated.

If there is no distance in the world, there will be no missing. If you don't believe me, when the whistle of the ship rings, when the whistle of the train rings, when the wheels of the car start to turn, when the plane hits the runway and takes off, there is a yearning, unforgettable thoughts begin to appear, and pain and happiness begin to spread.

Of course, missing can make people cry and miss can also make people smile. Whether you cry or laugh, when you miss, you won't have distractions, only the shadow of real missing appears in your heart.

Indeed, missing is also a kind of purity, which makes your heart clean and transparent, and only weaves dreams and entangles your thoughts for those who cherish it in your heart.

Whenever, miss can sing beautiful songs, no matter where, miss can shine brightly. Missing under the long moon, beautiful feelings are as transparent and clean as moonlight;

In the evening thoughts, the beautiful heart is also full of sunshine-like warmth; Missing in the autumn rain, worrying acacia is also a bit more sad; Missing in the winter snow, feelings are as light and textured as snow, waiting patiently and happily for spring.

Any beautiful scenery can open people's feelings of missing, and beautiful scenery also sets off the beauty of missing. With endless thoughts, it is doomed to be a long wait. Emily Dickinson, an American poetess, said, "It is not long to wait for 10,000 years, if there is love as compensation in the end".

This is the most powerful interpretation of the loyalty and openness of the waiting thought. But in any case, missing is a huge spiritual wealth, which can make the mind cleaner and purer.

Missing Essay 2 Blue sky, a melodious pigeon whistle, drifting away with the wind. Standing at the intersection at the beginning of the year, looking at the distant mountains and faint clouds, who accidentally lost the clouds in Tianshan Mountain to find the green hills outside the snowy area.

There is still a faint fragrance of flowers floating in the cool wind, which is the fragrance of all of my heart cultivated by the warmth of years, or a rose in that corner, playing the strings of spring love. It is a promise cherished in the bottom of my heart, sending a spring breeze, raising the dust of the years, blooming fleeting, and wrinkling into the tranquility of a lake.

Walking on the bright bluestone road polished by time, listening to the silent flow of time on the eaves of the years. Shallow. My heart, after the dust settled, has been sitting in the misty clouds, looking for the warm past left by the world of mortals, looking for messy footprints, which pair passed you by and which pair overlapped with you.

In the past, perhaps, on special days, there were always special ideas. I miss the deep eyes in the sunset and the shallow smile in the moonlight. Inadvertently, I miss them, they have blossomed into petals in my heart, full of fragrance. That year, palms facing each other, made a promise.

Open the plain paper in your hand and read the words addressed to you. My heart is like a weak willow in the wind, slowly blooming new green. Looking at the rose in the corner, I don't know whether it was awakened by the spring breeze or intoxicated by the emotion of this year. In the warm sunshine, it seems to be pulling away branches and buds, swaying fragrance and softening the heart at this time.

That year, a heavy snow brought you into my world. I walked all the way and you followed me all the way. From then on, you walked through my four seasons and let me have your life. Fate is so subtle, it's not an accidental meeting, but it's already arranged by God. On the road of the world of mortals, there is a person waiting for your arrival, neither early nor late. A pair of natural eyes meet, a farewell and reunion greeting: you are here.

At that time, the sunshine was as soft as silk, and then your skirt brushed gracefully. Perhaps, you will forget who you are, and you will not lose your mind and forget everything about yourself. You said, white clouds are flowers in the sky, and sunshine is the love thread dancing at the fingertips. You should make a bunch of real flowers from sunshine and wear them on my temples just to smile like flowers.

I always thought that there would be no distance with love. When I got closer, I realized that bloom, which was sent from one journey to another, was still far away from Qian Shan. I have always thought that love is an ethereal fireworks. Where it burns, it is a paradise of love. I don't want to stand in the heaven of fire and fire, I will burn out the last trace of true feelings.

Love with youth as a bet turned out to be just a play, and the people who played it were tired, and the people who watched it were tired. Enough acting, abandoning the curtain and fleeing, enough watching, but it is a play without an ending. Where will I think again, who is whose shoulder, who is whose meeting, but the play broke up and there was no driveway coming and going.

Some people say that love flowers are the strongest poison in the world, but others would rather die black and blue in love flowers than avoid the rich fragrance of flowers. I am not the first or the last person to wander among flowers, drink the incurable poison in the world and be infatuated with love.

Although a little smile has passed away for many years, some scars still have shallow pain, but in this chilly spring season, I still believe that you are the most beautiful encounter in my life and the scenery I enjoy at will.

Buddha said, looking back 500 years, it is a pity that this life passed by. I would like to look back a thousand times in the fire, just to know you in this life.

Under the setting sun, the world of mortals with settled dust, under the mottled shadow of years, a figure looks at the distant white clouds, waiting for you, just for a vicissitudes of life: you are here.

About Missing Prose 3 The warmth of fleeting time turned the heart into a simple and fragrant pen, and in that bright and colorful flower season, the rhyme was dyed into the beauty of a love poem. The flowers there, the poems on the Sansheng stone, whether your breath is still flowing. That warm heart is covered with lingering ink and engraved with your warm traces.

The wind is coming, you walk away gently. Missing time, still thoughts, with the breath of dew, is it between clouds and water? Is the fragrance of forget-me-not still entangled in the rain? Is there still a warm smell of you and me on the long ribbon?

In the twilight of the distant mountains, the wind is piling up, and under the dark night, the heart is surging. How many memories in my life can make me sit quietly in time and think of them?

Missing moonlight is bright on the windowsill in winter, listening to the lingering whispers of snowflakes through a rainy season. Who can read the vows of love in the pasture of the soul? Who can read the sign language of love?

Those white vicissitudes of life, those memories that dare not touch, will appear every time on a windy night, and I don't know how to sort out those little comforts in time. Maybe missing is the reappearance of tears in our hearts.

Ink dyed time, charming in the moonlight, savoring a spiritual dialogue, how to make it flow in the midnight dream. Walking in Xuexin Lake, the ice flowers are clearly mapped, fluttering with the wind in the night, and Wan Ru's solo snowflake rotates lightly.

If I fall in love with the melting snowflake, I will spend my whole life worrying about it. In the misty rain, I will smear the horizon with a clear tear.

Ice flowers wrap around the porch window, listening to your breath through time. If time is not getting old, put that sadness and joy quietly in the white winter.

Looking back at the intersection in winter, the deep and shallow fleeting time is covered by the traces of flowers and rain. If you can, rub the misty rain into your dream. Every time you think of it, it is the most beautiful poem in time.

How can a simple plain pen draw the streamer of the full moon and a faint sentence, how can you knead your mood into a poem, wake up the sleeping time under the nightgown, and a hasty flower affair will quietly bloom the fragrance of memory.

Those lingering images in the dust are scattered where the heart bridge meets. In the long years, the wind and frost of the years are covered with intoxicating floral fragrance, elegant and long.

The moon sets on the porch window, the flowers surround the greenhouse, and the breeze confuses the thoughts around the eyebrows. That kind of silent beauty is light and long on the night of sending flowers in the middle of the month. A timely encounter with a heartbeat awakened the long-lost warmth and nostalgia.

The fragrance of tea overflows the poem. May time add fragrance to your tea. When I am in full bloom, I will listen to the poems of fragrant flowers, and when the wind rises, I will dance with you.

Find a rainy night, smell the fragrance, listen to the late time and smell the cool breeze. If you can, let the warmth of the years seep from your lips and teeth, let the pure feelings live in your heart, like the sleeping stars in the night sky, and have a good time.

Boiling rain, butterflies flying in the green, turning yesterday's deep feelings into the fragrance of dust at the bottom of my heart, which reminds me of the warm sun.

There are many regrets in the years, including the withering of flowers and the lack of months. When I was in bloom, what remained unchanged was your eyebrows, and what remained unchanged was my thoughts when the moon was full. Since then, spending a good month and a full moon has become the endorsement we pursue. I didn't have time to think about it. The joy in my heart was like a shallow bud that met the surprise of rainy season and quietly opened a purplish fragrance.

Holding a wisp of breeze in my hand and a faint fragrance on my sleeve, every time I think of it, it is the most beautiful poem in time. Whether it is the singing of the wind or the whispering of flowers, it is a warm trace in the past years, and it is the most beautiful stroke.

I always want to listen to the wind, see the flowers and the full moon with you at midnight, so that my thoughts in time are entangled in the mountains. The mountain is a butterfly dancing pear, and the mountain is running water. There is moss waiting there, perhaps, until the white hair is all gone.

Drifting misty rain falls lightly on the title page of the years, superimposed into a light paper kite, flying in your passing dream, as soft as a rose manor, waiting for the stunning appearance of epiphyllum. In the fragrant fairy tale, whose eyes are attracted by your beautiful and shy face, whose thoughts are intoxicated by your fragrant love words.

Knead those innocent and beautiful times into a season of proud snow plum fragrance, gentle and quiet. ...

Middle-aged people are simple and calm. Peace of mind, let go of many fetters, entrust a feeling for mountains and rivers, and record all the way. Everything comes and goes, flowers fall and agarwood, and everything is dull in the breath.