Color-By-Numbers: A Synesthete's Infatuation

I hate it when I first open my eyes in the morning,
the sun’s rays, a loud and abrasive 1
ruthlessly
scratching at my sensitive sleep-indulged pupils,
forcing me to slam my lids together, to
turn to the corner for the comfort of
6—
Velvety, Silent, Smoky,
full of Embrace
like the Densest Shadows

but then my lids part,
regretfully,
like your shining 2 lips often do,
and there you are,
the sun’s 1 illuminating your
Wild and Infernal hair,
the color of the most passionate
flaming 4, glistening with traces
of 7
and I see
your lids unfasten
to reveal the
1 of the sun
upon the
3 of your eyes,
Fresh and Breezy,
like the
Spray of the Sea
on a soiled face

I just stare,
Gazing into the perfection of
6
in the center of
3
as it shrinks away
from the resplendence of
1
on
4

3.14
Flawless,
Infinite,
You.