Synaesthesia
by and published in Edition Six of Pomegranate
Silence is purple, brash.
I drown it out with blues and greens,
tap staccato silver on the table-top.
You smile at me. What if, you say. What if?
I laugh – red – and say:
there is no what if.
It comes out wrong, burnt umber,
and you glare like there’s no tomorrow
and empty your glass of vodka
in a single purpled gulp.
You wince. I burn.
Light blue is the colour,
stained fingertips on glasses
ringing in the darkness.
We talk in mauve. Bruises.
I shiver under your touch.
When it’s over your words are edged in black
and I pretend not to hear you.