A prickly heart
beats inside a chest.
Thump thump thump,
the thrum of blood
coursing through veins,
like a river swollen with melting snow.
How sharp that heart appears,
pointed, angry, dangerous.
How dry and desiccated,
like something that might turn to dust
if you touched it, if you could touch it.
For the brave who might reach out,
even tentatively, with a gloved hand,
delicately probing the sharpened points.
Like tiny knives poised to cut
the one that comes close, they wait.
Tender fingers push them aside.
Gently, lovingly pressing into the flesh,
finding a moist treasure, supple within.
A hiding place for love,
encased by thorns,
freed by human hands and a heart.