repose. I gained self awareness in the first dark, then second light. An inventory of the senses unfolded. First the scent, slight, of perfume and shampoo and body wash with human richness. The scent is sillage and as it merged into me, into my own scents, it blossomed, enriched, deepened. Then the light behind my closed eyes found pink edges, turning to violet where it lingered upon the brown and speckled that came before the dark warm center. When the vision merged with my memories, clusters of starlight emerged, gently swirled, and spun into pin-point whiteness.
The tastes flowed over me, warm and neutral, clear, milky, bright red, dusky to purple, sweet, pure, hints of savory moving through too. My mouth watered for more as the flavours increased, brightened, and I added my own history of bud knowledge to horizons and worlds of the mouth and nose and of all until music rose in the syncopated rhythms of quiet pacing, became complex, split into chords, then arpeggios, until I added my harmonic ways and the equities of tribal drumming and Gregorian chants, both, and all the rest filled the air around me, a symphony.
I can’t tell you what I felt. There are no words, from me, for that. My feelings defy my ability to describe. But then the gypsy words, old friends all, escaped from my early adulthood where I dreamed and gloried in possibility. The words rose up from their own quiet repose where she had breathed upon them, offered kindredness, a home forever in thoughts all our own, and I felt, felt, felt… perfect.