Synesthesia

I don't always see texture as color,
Not always.
The memory of a maroon lattice in a microphone when I was 15.
The celery green of our kitchen
In smooth ovals.

I did tonight.
Making love,
Your arms wrapped around me tightly.
Our ebb and flow
Bringing sunsets of purple-blue, pink, and yellow
Behind my eyes
Against the silhouette of a black leafless tree 

I had seen somewhere once.

I will remember lemon wine,
The onyx lace edge of a stocking
Warm in the wash of colored past-season Christmas lights.
How you touched my skin with your gentle hands
Like it was to be worshipped.
The secrecy of reverent whispered epitaphs

That were
Lost, forever lost in the dark forrest of my hair.
The songs I played
On the midnight drive home
As it hailed
Were all blue.