Synesthesia

You are beyond your haunting eyes.
Me, my words are my eyes.

The color of my “Come home”

A deep amber flecked with phosphorescence

The color of your “God, yes.”

Purple with streaks of green.

My eyes think of the taste of your name

Cayenne dusted mangoes surrounded by twilight at the edge of a cliff.

I think of Rilke describing beauty as the “beginning of terror” which “serenely disdains to destroy us. “Every angel is terrible,” he says

But I praise my destroyers

Tonight, your eyes feel like candlelight.

Your words taste of liquorice; an aftertaste of cilantro in your strong vulnerabilities.

Your vowels fragranced with violets; consonants scented with hunger.

Exclamation points, question marks, commas and periods, they all hide each other’s fears and longings.

Slip your hand into my pockets and hunt for the ellipses;

I will pretend I never knew where you found your silences with me.

…ellipses were born on a roller coaster…and they remember their birth trauma…

Replace them then, with a full stop. Come home to me.

*This was a result of a casual afternoon’s conversation with Olivia Dresher. Having said that, let me also tell you that there is no such thing as casual conversations with Olivia Dresher. Her every word is liquid gold. Steal, take, sequester – but do not let them go.

4 Comments Add yours

Love, Miffalicious. says:

November 9, 2012 at 15:02

Miss M. I thought you couldn’t trump your last post, but this? This is probably one of my all-time favourites from you, which says aplenty, because I love all of your works. You’re a blessed being, lady. There’s no other way you can write something of such beauty, without being a possessor of something far greater, and far more beautiful.

This was otherworldly.

Love, Miffalicious. [www.miffalicious.com]

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