Synesthesia

He, so defined by absence, is always present in this. The ritual of it, fingers sliding down over the belly, the pretence of hesitation – it is all an invitation. You close your eyes and your fingers draw him out of the darkness in a steady rhythm until he appears. It is early afternoon. Outside there are clarion skies. The light sits on the tip of your tongue, you press it against your teeth and it bursts in your mouth with a sudden yellow. The glow intensifies and now you taste the colour orange. It rolls across your tongue, the flavour of unfettered sunlight, filling your mouth with a burnt sweetness. As you arch your back vivid green bolts down your spine. The light behind your eyes changes, you are soaked in the deep wine of cool, hard precision, the focus of breath and blood and nerve. Water fills your ears, it spills over and soaks your skin. There is salt on your lip and you try to lock in on those slate eyes but you are holding on to something that wants you to let go. You lose him in a fusion of colour, you are incandescent and you cry out his name in the white-hot glow. He disappears behind your eyes and the world goes back to black.

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