Monæsthesia

synaesthesia

 

Monæsthesia

The number one is many things:
The first, the last, a third of three,
But never red or cold or soft to me.

And as for feelings Monday brings
Like boredom, stress and starting new,
It’s never musk or Mendelssohn or blue.

My numbers do not stretch in strings
That always and precisely wind
In fixed meanders hanging in my mind.

And yet, for you each letters sings
As glad or cautious, salt or sweet.
To you, my view of life is incomplete.

How am I to love you back ?
My thoughts are elementalized,
My triggers compartmentalized,
And never transcendental accidentalized.
And you with yours all out-of-whack
With P’s as quartz and Q’s as jet
In ways I’ll never really get
When white is white, and only black is black.

I must admit, it kills me
When I think of how I’m blind
To the wiring of your mind,
And the way your neurons spill and slide.
But then again, it thrills me
When I think of how my touch
Can bring about so much besides,
With all your senses catching rides.

 

 

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