Time and Sense

You ask me in a sky blue way to define a moment, but I splash wetly through time, no one drop distinguishable in the iridescent puddle of memory.

I’m a violet five, and the sulphuric fireworks are so loud I must cover my ears, but I say in lemon, “Daddy, it’s too loud, the sound hurts my eyes!”

He laughs in cinnamon, thinking I’ve mixed up the two (which is blue), but loud sounds are prickly needles and blinding white light, and bright colors sound like music.

Is it neurodivergent to know the sight of too many holes tastes like blood, and that plumerias smell like a pastel rainbow?

The stagnant past, and the steamy future flow through my galaxy of senses, and I know, in a humming tingle beyond the first violet five, what it means to be alive.