If I had synaesthesia,
Would my metaphors jump to life?
Your smiles invoke foreign wind-chimes,
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 love bites still iron and blood in my mouth,
The silence a sparkling black curtain
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 dirge
In line with your fluorescent footsteps.