Synesthetic Blues

I’ve got the synesthetic blues

And it’s not like I got to choose.

With these synesthetic blues

You can write capital L

And I hear marching shoes.

You toss out the number seven,

I taste wine-red hues.

Magnolias in bloom

Play around church organ tune.

Even these synesthetic blues

Smell like a rusty pile of twos.

I’m seeing what you’re saying,

Feeling you laughing,

But the blue inside you burns through.

Some people say these blues are special,

But they keep me apart from you.

Now if you see things the way I smell them,

Look me up, please do.

Just make sure to dial the right color

Or my phone won’t ring blue.

My caller I.D. is waiting

for the color

of the number

of the tune

That spells you.