He paints rainbows in my mind

It was a soft September night, the cool autumn air the shade of ripe blueberries around me, and him, with the warmth of his body like so many shifting fire opals in front of my eyes. His hands were those of an artist, my skin his canvas, and his fingers the brushes, caressing and drawing out the colors of synesthesia in the space between us. Across my feet his fingers wandered in colors of deepest blue, continuing more pastel up my legs, and finding my blazing violet-pink stomach for a gentle, red speckled rub, tickling in bursts of purple and banana here and there as he went. The feeling of deepest love and affection resonated in my chest as tickle-me-pink, mixing with the spots of tingling crimson of longing as I quivered and shivered silverly. I watched him as if spellbound as he created his masterpiece, mesmorized by the moving, swirling landscape of colors, dancing to the motion of his hands. All I could do was squirm and giggle against the tickles, silently wishing he would never stop.

And then, as if someone had switched out the lights, the colors faded. I looked up from the black cushion of the couch to where the ceiling should have been, and found his loving hazel eyes there instead, watching me with the same playful tenderness that I always find when his fingers are painting rainbows in my mind. Then, like a cat pouncing on its helpless prey, he pulled me close to him with his strong, artistic hands and we kissed. I closed my eyes to the tie dyed blanket of colors surrounding us, watching them continue to dance against the darkness of my eyelids. Like fireworks against a starless night. Like bright, beautiful, darting fish in a pool of the deepest water.

As our lips parted company, a thought drifted forward from the back of my mind like a message in a bottle, floating along the currents toward anyone that wants to read what it has to say. I picked up the thought curiously and looked inside, then smiled at him. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around his chest, pulling him close to me so that I could enjoy his fiery warmth. Silently, I put the thought away in the back of my mind, as a weapon to anyone that tries to tell me I'm crazy or that my colors make me a freak.

I don't suffer from synesthesia. I enjoy every moment of it.

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