Synesthesia
Location
My life tastes "almost."
It starts with a background layer,
a warm comfortable smell of baking challah
peppered with the occasional remark in Afrikaans
which I can almost understand, but not quite...
I am the first child in my family born in America.
Then are the really intense flavors--
"Poetry." "Writing." "Reading."
All similar, savory like a tangering--
the sharp tang somehow smooth,
flooding through the other words so that soon,
everything tastes faintly of them.
These are my food, happiness, and warmth,
these bursts of vreativity strung like crystal beads
on a strign that is my soul.
Knowlsedge is my life--Ravenclaw robes
and overfilled bookcases.
My life tastes "almost,"
that soft chewy word
which takes a second to digest.
My life tastes "almost,"
beacuse I've been waiting for this,
this chance to add words to the sentence of me.
My life tastes "almost,"
the word slipping through my other
adjectives and nouns,
its tentacles twining around each faction
like computer cords and skeins of yarn.
With blue lines of notebook paper tattooed on it,
my life tastes like the fresh wisp of air of early autumn mornings,
awakening the exciting worlds of storybooks
like a s ented candle left to burn.
My life tastes "almost"
because I,
the strange one, the nerdy one, the grammar-lover,
the one whose nose is permanently glued to the concept of books,
I
am ready
for
THIS.