The Mosquito God.

Of moon-lit mosquitoes,
leaving tiny bites,
on bare naked backs
not enamoured by the mystique of pleasure,
but clutching on to,
slippery bodies,
tight.
Stubborn hands,
letting go of
pleading fingers,
ready to appease,
dispassionate hearts.
And the enduring pain,
finding cracks,
permissible and aloof,
and neatly settling in,
almost welcomed.
Swamps alive,
buzzing with secrets,
of aching love.
And a vehicle drifts past,
not so discreetly,
afraid to put up with,
the grief,
that's oh so magnetic,
oh so difficult,
and ever present.
And thus, the night sets in,
just like that,
without much aplomb,
for the disillusioned lover.