Easy Does It, Don't Spill It

We had an appointment, our regular rendezvous
to hold hands and chat awhile as childhood sweethearts
often do. We've been going steady since I was four.
That's why I say, what's mine is mine
and to no one else belongs.
So what's up! My date has stood me up!
Am I depressed? Not yet, but wait...
I'm too livid to be depressed.

In toilets, trains and stranger places,
I sought my lover's favor night and day,
and paid for it (I falsely thought) with unholy reverence
as one pays for one night stands with a king's courtesan.
So can anyone inform me, what went south?
It's not like I've been unfaithful,
or switched the bitch for cross word puzzles.
Girlfriend is still my muse par excellence.

Then, she of free verse and rhyme retorts from her hiding place,
"Shut your mouth, if indeed your mouth is mine to prick or tickle.
Find yourself a thorn and stick it where it hits you.
Then return to me renewed, once your mouth is licorice
and your teeth are bleeding hot."

So said, so done, my witchy mistress.
I've leached my lip to bleed a bit,
and pledge upon this page that oozing syrup.
Here Muse, I place my tongue upon your trunk,
and entrust my cocoon cerebellum to your crowning canopy,
that we may think, rethink (shall we),
our topsy, turnkey, off and on sadistic thing.