synesthetic

our bridge is a colour I cannot pronounce
(not has, but is)
a shape, a melody
I long to hear out loud

but I am tongue-tied

not inevitably deaf by heart
but none the wiser for composing
a passage for this tune
while the map I thought we walked,
just falls apart

and we sing
oh how we sing
notebooks full of thread
where we knit our synesthetic jackets
in anonymity
and get to choose
where ever that is at

but then,

at every single cornerstone
I confoundingly realise, again
we're apparently hanging on
to both sides
of the same
transitional end