Sunday 12 April 2015

Synaesthesia

If I had synaesthesia,
Would my metaphors jump to life?
Your smiles invoke foreign windchimes,
Your laughter the taste of coriander leaves,
And your phone number is creamy purple.

Your weight on my bed,
Visits my chest with crashing waves,
Your lovebites still iron and blood in my mouth,
The silence a sparkling black curtain,
Above us.

Your arrivals wash me in petrichor,
And your departures in crude horns,
My heart throbbing in vermillion rhythms,
My sighs a sonorous gray.

Your lips are string music,
Your jokes satin and glass,
Your summer dress my masala chai,
Our dinners crusted in velvet and blue.

Our promises run like thick honey,
Even on the streets rusting in browns,
The streetlights singing their dirges,
In line with your fluorescent footsteps.


Image Source: Melissa McCracken

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