Synesthesia

If love is a prism,

and colors are music—

then love’s wildest sounds must be glaring and bright.

And if being enraptured,

means prism’s light captured—

then you can have sparks for every glum night.

But sparks are staccato,

and the warbling vibrato,

of a love that’s off-color,

and slightly off-key—

Can wear on the ear, and wash out the palette—

til nothing remains but a silent, pale plea.

(2011)