Cosmic

It’s her clicks, her tongue against

the roof of her mouth

“consistent”

spit collected against her teeth

starts my shudder, from my shoulders

to the small of my back

I dig that purple hair

oh, oh honey

I dig that purple hair and the dusk shade rose

of her lips;

(something in the esses

something in the tees)

“consistent”

tingle and the fire, at the roots

of my hair,

when she swallows

I moan can barely take it;

and when she opens her mouth again

its vomiting liquid numb, straight 

at the roots of my hair

“consistent”

something in her breath and the pace

to her “love”

I am rooted

much as the calla lily

I think this might be what it's like

to go crazy