Through the Sunday morning acid of coffee
and oranges, I feigned worry when you told
me you thought you had synesthesia. And
you laughed when I locked eyes with you
through the oatmeal’s steam, rising from our
bowls the way that steam rises from New York
sewers in the movies, and asked you about
treatment options, what we would do about
the children, when the disease, gnawing at
your body like a teething toddler, finally
swallowed you whole. But, in the evening,
when I was in the bath—a solitary candle
illuminating the room, a glass of wine resting
in the floor beside the tub, Debussy tapping
softly on the keys under his little black coat—
you kissed me and took me in your hands,
shortly after saying that you saw the dark
room brightly colored—all the flats in scarlet,
all the sharps in sangria. And I believed you.
 
Gage Crowder is a graduate student studying English education at a small liberal arts college in Pensacola, Florida. When he is not perusing the city with his wife or studying for class, he pretends to be a poet. He is also a member of the West Florida Literary Federation. His previous work has appeared in Fountains and The Legend.