This is how you’ll fall in love the first time:
Your socks will be the snow over dark heels;
as white as virginity;
as blank as a poker face.
Adolescence will be your vice.
Your ankles will jitter in pains of change,
so you’ll cuff your feet to freeze your step.
You’ll think it will soothe the shake in your stance
to make you look older.
But every coal mark of your heel
will draw black oceans on the sun.
That’s how stupid you are.
You collect the heartbreaks in droves.
You’ll drag the bruises of the heart up the body
like running steel, sharp against the flesh, just to show resolve.
Whatever you do will announce your naivety instead;
the scars will leave road maps of love on your skin
before you have the chance to conceal them.
Believing that ice feels nothing, you’ll erase your grin to look unaffected.
Even when your socks are stained in black,
you won’t be looking for the cure.
You’ll be sick and falling apart.
An avalanche of pity will inscribe you.
Then, you’ll crave to see calmness in the heat and hope to forget.
You’ll do strange things to survive the madness of the hips.
But you’ll sink into the desert like an iceberg in a pot
melting in the flame that licks you dead.
When you finally decide it ended, you’ll come and tell me that
hot love played cold tricks on you.
You’ll ask about it and I’ll answer about it
but you won’t understand it. You will never understand it.