When you speak, you are deep blue, where the sun doesn't reach underwater anymore.
When you sing, you are clear blue, mottled with specks of light that peek through the clouds.
When you talk to me, you are deep blue. clear, deep, blue; tinted glass, words filtering through like sunlight, marking patterns on the table.
He is rain, clear, pure sounds soaking the ground and giving life to every living thing, dangerous sounds, leaving puddles in his wake when he is finished.
When you talk to him, you are brilliant, electric blue, lightning piercing the dark black sky, drawing attention from every direction.
I am teal, watered down with tears, dripping from my mouth when I speak, lighting in the bright sky of day.
We could be a lightning storm, blue and teal, filling the sky with art day and night.
You would rather make lighting meet rain, a classic yet brilliant display of a massive thunderstorm, beautiful, destructive, and dangerous, catching everyone's eyes but mine, leaving people wondering when the lighting and rain will separate, with a trail of wreckage behind them.
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Wow, it's been a while. Sorry about that. I've been busy. Enjoy this sad, gay poetry.
YOU ARE READING
What Color is Your Voice?
PoetryA story based on my experience with synesthesia. The second story in my series about mental illness. They do not have to be read in order.
