You're here. I'm here. We'll always be alright. 

The flowers grew in your chest as your love for her blossomed. But you have no way of preserving them. They bloom from your blood and wilt from your pain.

The sinner will meet peasants who make sorrow vanish within, pacification emerging, leading to the serenity of oneself and others, remaining present even after the 13th month.  

I love her now and forever ... even if she ruins me.

Then you better make it seem as if it's your last. 

Cupid must’ve shot four different persons at the same time.