Lonely, silently he sits,
patient and still, he utters not a sound,
Body contorted and uneasy,
He deftly shifts each spindly leg.
The townspeople do not see him,
In their crowds of haste he is invisible,
And insignificant.
Bags of liquid droop from a darkening sky,
Pressing and squeezing,
Until suddenly they burst,
Drowning the crowds in lashings,
Of sweet smelling rain drops.
And still he waits.
Lights flicker off and the street,
Engulfs itself in tides of night.
He makes his move,
Swiftly,
Hovering only briefly beside an open window,
He enters,
Eyes do not focus,
He relies on sound,
Uses his nimble fingers for guidance.
And with the heart fluttering intensity of a 'would be killer' -
He exits,
Taking a small piece of someone Else's world,
In his pocket,
And leaving a small itching wound in return.
***I wrote this after someone mentioned the similarities between the movements of a mosquito and a house burglar. See if it makes sense to you***
