Yesterday, blue tasted like licorice.
Even wind chimes caused dizziness;

an ache of paper lanterns rotting
from the acacias. Perhaps the L

in my name makes you sad,
evokes a film where a woman

waves from a train. Or how
this horizon wants to be a hymn.

If you listen, you can
hear the holes in the alphabet,
sounds lit by the lamps
of our bones. Perhaps

with this page I could fashion
a boat or a very convincing window.

A dress made entirely of vowels.
“The Synaesthete’s Love Poem,” Kristy Bowen  (via highwayaisle)

(Source: commovente, via highwayaisle)