29 Palms


He was 30 with soft features and an air of innocence and intelligence that quietly demanded to be seen. Coming from the desert, he knew all too well the certain degree of loneliness and solitude of barren lands + scorching hot winds that only holy water and human touch could quench. He was a year-round desert bloom and a native Saguaro. I watched his pupils dilate as I conversed with him about herbalism and plant medicine as if he had never heard those words flowing out someone’s mouth before. “They never taught us that in med school.” He remarked. “Your life is so different from mine.” I understood what he meant. It felt as if I was his very own culture shock, a tantalizing dose of almost deadly poison, a belladonna brimming with alkaloids he so badly wanted to taste. I would be heavily lying if I said I did not find his transparent astonishment arousing. I wanted to intrigue him, seduce him, but in our limited time all I could do was tease and twirl around his rational, medical mind for a bit—even if all I wanted to do was momentarily fuck all the structure and order out of his anatomy. Our differences facilitated a deeper connection, that of exploration. We were both gateways for each other to see into other possible ways of existing. He peered at me through the interwoven matrix out of sheer curiosity, cutting through the thick fog and that alone was enough for him to begin to

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