我很喜欢看他写字,微微皱起的双眉,轻轻翕动的鼻翼,专注的眼神,岂止好看,是性感。更何况,他写得一手好书法。字沉稳得让我固执地相信他的内心,定如松树般隽永遒劲,流水般温柔多情。我因感觉而心动,却因字,爱上他。音乐弥漫在咖啡厅,慵懒的夕阳透过落地玻璃有点浑浊而颓靡。他写字,我看窗外凋敝的梧桐树,光秃秃的,毫无生气,很难让人相信,饱含盎然春意的转机,就藏在这些枯瘦老朽的枝干里。我闲得看景,信纸被他的左手轻遮,我望不到只言片语。我只安静地,期待被墨汁 I really like to see him write, slightly wrinkled eyebrows, gently moving the nose, focus, more than good-looking, is sexy. What’s more, he wrote good calligraphy. The word calm so that I stubbornly believe that his heart, as pine trees as meaningful, flowing and gentle and passionate. I feel the heart because of feeling, but because of words, fall in love with him. Music filled the cafe, lazy sunset through the floor a little cloudy glass and decadent. He wrote, I saw dead window plane trees, bare, lifeless, it is difficult to believe that full of spring turning point, hiding in these thin and rotten branches. I am idle to see the scene, stationery is covered by his left hand, I can not see a few words. I only quietly, looking forward to be ink