My father’s admonishments smell like fresh pumpernickel. Wearing corduroy tastes of orange curry. Your shampoo’s cherry aroma tickled the backs of my knees. The taste of your lips rolled green waves across my vision. Watching you walk away sounded like a bee under a plastic cup, the buzzes and bangs receding into your waiting cab.
Tags: 55aday, 55s, ari collins, synesthesia
