I still remember your warmth, baby...

I remember the lazy Sunday mornings we just layed in our bed, cuddling and laughing over things that didn't matter.

I remember you delicate touch as you drew faint lines on my chest, giggling when I told you that it tickled.

I always took you hand and kissed you white hand, saying that you're mine and I'm yours.

I remember the rosy cheeks and gentle smile on your face as I said those words. 

I remember how you played with our promise rings, saying that someday you would like a ring with a big diamond on it.

I remember how you pouted and slapped me slightly when I told you that we didn't have enough money.

You would always stand up and go to the kitchen, calling me a moodruiner...

I would always follow you and take you in my arms, kissing you neck...

You always forgave me...

I remember the hot tea we drank while staring at our art studio, side by side in the blanket you made.

We talked about our unfinished paintings and the ones people wanted to buy from us.

We never sold those paintings in the end, they still hang in the empty bedroom...

Those paintings remind me of you, baby - they're warm just like you.

You must think I'm just stupid old man who can't let go of the past we shared.

Maybe you're right, I can't and I don't want to.

We had something special, something that no one can take away, even the one that holds you now.

You know...

I've actually tried to move on, meet someone new, get a new start.

But they're not you, nothing can replace you, baby.

I sometimes look at the last painting we made together, the largest project.

It stands in the kitchen, right next to your favorite chair.

I trace the smudged paint, feeling your fingertips.

You said that it would be cool if we didn't use brushes for that painting, only our hands.

I remember how you whined when you found out that the paint wouldn't come off you hands.

We sat on the cold floor, soaking our fingers in the lukewarm soapwater you had prepared....

We promised ourselves that we would never try handpainting again.

We actually never tried anything together again...

I hope he treats you well, that bastard who told me he was my friend.

I hope you find your happiness again, baby.

I hope that you're not mad that I smudged paint on you when we made love for the last time...

I hope that you would remember me as clearly as I remember you, baby...

And I wish that someday you would come back into my arms, Yixing.