behind his eyes, he hears color. he told her, every pitch has its own shade and hue.
an air raid siren, for instance, has colors i do not like: a light yellow, and after,
a deeper green. he says that the image associated with that sound, a sound he
desperately wishes to enjoy, adds an edge to it that ruins it for him. a lot of
songs are ruined by poor colors.
but he says to her, he says, when you moan and sigh it’s beautiful. with your mouth
open, the higher tones, they are piercing white, and after, less surprised, with your
mouth closed, they come out blue. he tells her it reminds him of a part of downtown
Chicago he used to visit when he was little, when it was snowing. that everytime he
considers her bed, her room, he is filled with a pleasant chill.
(he lives in the bible-belt south where it never snows, or in Los Angeles, and at the
most, he sees her once every three years —
he says its crazy to feel so crazy entwined with memories, the only times when nothing
is lurking like a horrid thing begging him, begging him.)
this poem was written about my friend andres, who is a synaesthete. he hears color. we had a bundle of long conversations about synaesthesia, since he and i both have it (his audial and mine grapheme). huzzah!
after writing this, i made an image of the poem with all of the letters colored as i saw them, and had it printed on a 24″ x 36″ poster. it still hangs at my old apartment. i oughta get it back.