Synesthesia (or, One Hundred Thirty Three)

The air smelled Raw Umber
As I pictured the flames
Licking the smooth mahogany finish
Of your forever bed.
Liquid saline ran down my cheeks
In neat cocaine lines.
I couldn’t quite decide
If the tears tasted more like
Cadet Blue or Wild Blue Yonder
When they caught the corner of my lips,
Like the thimble Wendy gave to Peter.
But in the end,
I harshly wiped my cheek
And decided on Timberwolf.
Behind my eyes, too many colors
Making chaotic cacophony
In the fellowship hall.
The Neon Carrot of “He was a great man.”
The Indigo of
“We’re so sorry for your loss.”
The juxtaposition of a silent Fuschia hug.
All I can think of is
The pads of your sandpaper fingertips,
Pressed against my porcelain hands.
And even though I will never
Feel the Goldenrod of my arm in yours
As you walk me down the aisle,
Razzmatazz draws a childish smile up my cheek.
I swallow a Bittersweet lump in my throat.
This too shall pass.