Le Carillon des Couleurs

Lyrics

C-sharp. 
It has always been emerald green. 
A shard of cool glass held to the light.

They told me it was just poetry. A way of speaking.
But for me, Tuesday is a deep, velvety indigo.
Your name, a warm terracotta tile, rough under my thumb.
The clink of a spoon in a porcelain cup is a shower of silver sparks.
I read a book and the page is a silent mosaic.
The letter 'A' is always a bold, unapologetic red.
Francis Galton sent his letters out in 1880, asking about the visions of the sane.
He was asking about me.

This is no metaphor.
This is the carillon of colors, the taste of a shape.
It's the quiet thunder of wires that crossed in the dark, long before I was born.
A secret architecture, a private dialect.
The way my world is built.

I was twenty when I found Luria's little book.
The one about S.V. Shereshevskii.
How a politician's voice left black-grey silt in his vision.
And I wept.
Not from sadness, but from recognition.
A bowl of alphabet soup is never just soup.
The number four is shy and sturdy, a block of grey wood.
The number nine is a flash of dark steel, cold to the touch.
Daniel Tammet sees them too, his numbers have landscapes.

"A whole complex of feelings," Solomon said.
And it is hard to distinguish one from the other.
The joy is louder, a blast of pure yellow.
The grief has a texture, rough burlap against the skin.
Sometimes the orchestra is blinding.
A symphony of flavors I did not ask for, a cacophony of light that leaves me breathless.

C-sharp.
Still emerald. Always.
When you say you love me...
it tastes like salt and warm bread.
Can you taste it with me?