"If one day we will definitely travel to Chongqing together

When the river mist drifts over the Qiansimen Bridge, the navigation destination will always be where you are. The lights of Hongyadong brighten like a bathhouse for every passerby, Only our promise sinks to the bottom of the Jialing River, Becoming ripples of light that cruise ships can never salvage. The hotpot has been boiling for seven years, Table 36 by the river has grown oil stains like annual rings, Mushrooms float and sink in the red soup, Like your fingerprints left on the glass window that year, Repeatedly imprinted by the mountain city's rain into faded boat tickets. The Yangtze River cable car drags rust-colored sighs across the heart of the river, The cabin sways with all the unfinished embraces. The cracks in the South Bank Road benches hold half a sheet of moonlight from 2016, Ginkgo leaves rotted into mud, still remembering someone who once traced the cable car's trajectory with withered branches. The clock at Jiefangbei splits in two at midnight, Half shatters the unfinished vows from the library seven years ago, Half falls into the tin box in my palm tonight— Two boat tickets with dates eaten away by the river breeze, Slowly translating in the rain, "Us" into "me" and "empty seat." When navigation recalculates the route for the 2,147th time, Chongqing still rains in the tense of "if one day," Like some eternal grammatical error, All road signs leading to you hang with rusted plates saying "Road Closed" Chongqing, China