synaesthesis

my eyes

are closed.

but still i am looking.

the garden - it smells like a fragrant pale rose, tastes like a winter morning.

gently wafting, flower petals whirl and settle like the songs of birds and the faces of time.

I feel light on my face, against my eyelids, touching softly my lips and cheeks, casting pulsing rays through my entirety. warm and full, maroon red.

it engulfs wholly, a glow of energy, slow, lasting.

a rose breathes sparkling white dust onto my fingers. its petal feels soft, purple velvet and yellow silk under my touch.

the birds sound like tinkles of blue and silver and chocolate, flutelike and rounded, floating high above the toffee-brown smell of pine and the crisp blue air dotted with patches of satin warmth.

a voice, calling out from somewhere in the green expanse behind me, sounds low and a dark violet. it thrums softly, thin, reedy, but whole.

I touch a hand, gently. it is soft, small, dainty, and it feels like the molten white gold of home. spared the callouses of life, touched with snow, thin and beautiful. it feels like pearly white, pastel pink, the softest silver glow in the world.

you don't need to see to feel, and

love feels like pure gold.