Sharp prickles on your chest I see
While your shoulders are silk as I hear
The music of your touch.
Blues and lilacs are what I smell
Off your breath while I taste
The odor of your breath, and it makes no sense.

But soon you turn on the television and nonsense,
Leaving me to stew in the tastes, smells, sights
That don’t fit the organs. It’s not tasteful,
I tell you, I don’t want to hear
The black and gray, the knives on my skin that smell
Of green. And you look at me like I’ve lost my touch.

But still you change the channel, and I hear, touch-down!
And I’m blasted with a wind of sight and sound. In sensory
Overload I fall off the bed and onto the floor, which smells
Like purple. I yell at you, you should know how I see-saw
Between prickles and cyclones of color. Haven’t you heard?
And you reply, yes, I know how you differ in your tastes.

And what does that mean? I demand, maybe tastelessly,
For you have been wonderfully patient, and it touches
Me. But you look like you can’t believe what you’re hearing.
You say, it means what it means. Have you lost your senses?
And, still on the carpet, I say yes, in case you haven’t seen.
Your eyes narrow and it scares me, like a color without smell.

But your face slackens and you mutter, I think I smell
The pizza cooking. I’ll go see how it tastes
And I’ll be right back. See
You in a bit. And you run, you coward, barely touching
My head as you go. Suddenly I’m ashamed of my senses,
Wishing I could not feel the sobs I’m hearing.

You rush back, shirt still off, and say, I thought I heard
You crying. Are you okay? And I smell
The guilt off you and say, it makes no sense.
You love me but you’re afraid of me. Why do your tastes
Change? You can only shrug. Touching
You gently, I say, I’m going. Your face is the last I see.

I’ll find others, I think as I hear the sun. What else would make sense?
You’ll be seeing others, so why shouldn’t I smell the same thing?
There’s no need for me to be touchy. It’s only a matter of taste.