Succulent

I wish I were a succulent,
Incapable of sitting still,
Soaked down to my roots –
Potted temptress on window sill.

I would poke out my buds,
Lure you with my spines,
Let you drink in my ripeness,
Vow to make you only mine.

You and I make a good match;
I retain love for you to drain,
And my rigid exterior belies
A high threshold for pain.

Prickly with your heat,
I am primed to ooze sap
Stored like uncried tears
Delectable enough to lap.

When you finally come home,
Reality bursts my bubble
Like a pin poked in my leaves
Or a razor cutting stubble.

Despite my low maintenance,
And high tolerance for solitude,
I fancy that you will look my way
To launch a hands-on interlude.