sometimes love is like a superficial vein full of varicose,
swollen, twisted,
stretched to unsightly, non-existent,
unbearable
sometimes love is a venous collapse that leads to the reduction of veins
cold-blooded, skilled surgeons, we'll remove it like the longest vein
without the leg being affected,
only the blood that has passed through it will slowly change its course
and the saphena, available, will patch a coronary bypass,
pointing at her with our fingers, we'll shout: look at her, she wears a crown,
she became queen too

*dear, who will turn the blood from your sole to your thigh again
when our love will be only a second-degree relative,