Who couldn't love a cactus?
To whom would the returned invitation to cuddle be addressed?

My points of pain are a fractal regressed.
My existence is clear
although I am muddled.
I dream of mud, huddled.
How can I know that which is not expressed?

Dragged through the desert a stressed wanderer arrives gritted, worn.
I call in a hush.
Spittle on the lips;
they throw themselves on spines, torn.
Water from the body washes over dry cells, lush.
My embrace is for the bold, a test.

I rejuvenate.
Straight from the heart is so fresh.