Ten thousand hours of solitude

Silence rings in orchestras of light.

I am a sommelier of awe,

a neural cross-wiring expert,

as I pair my disparate senses

like a synesthetic synesthete -

red is the flavour of cinnamon;

cloudless skies smell like fresh lawn clippings;

this soft organic cotton nightgown,

as it rubs against skin, feels like the

sound made by trees that fall in the midst

of silent groves, the rustle of limbs,

branch against branch, the roar of a wave

that rushes onto a sandy shore.

My morning coffee, a liquid black,

unctuous sunlight of the golden hour,

spreads its soothing like yellow butter.

Words from books dance to life, they become

moving pictures I walk through as if

on a ghostly stage; I am never

alone in this synesthetic space.

I’m a sommelier of senses

and awe is the honeyed aftertaste.