The Mosquito

As days pass by flushing like a gutter,

I get used to these empty mail boxes, empty purses,
And your lies filling my thighs, spilling over in perfect roundness.

And like nothing more than a perturbed buzz of a mosquito,
You linger a permanent echo in the air; empty of your scent.
Sucking blood from my limbs, I saw your tubular stomach fill red,
What did I even think? That I would suffice your eternal thirst? I wonder!

That you turned to yet another body
That lay unblanketed for you, all along!
Nearby me, nearby me.
Why did I even panic in worry!
Was it not a mistake of mine,

To think that I would serve adequate for your pangs of hunger.
When, your perennial buzz of discontent was gone unnoticed by me.
Was it not a mistake of mine,

To watch you drink like a vampire to life,
While I suffered the sting of your poisoned fangs.
The zit you left for me, to heal;
In the place of a mistaken kiss.

As days pass by flushing like a gutter, stagnant in its flow,
I get used to the aftermath of this huge mistake in the name of love.

http://www.activemuse.org/2020_Open_Poems/Twinkle_George.html