He dreams like that sometimes, in falls of sound,

Tumbling down hills of golden grass,

Feelings left pregnant inside soft and full and round.

And then the sensations pass.

Miles Davis slips over his skin,

Cold and shuddering then hot and quick.

Pavarotti's arias rich as sin,

Hot chocolate sliding down lush and thick.

The sun is bright, a deep copper bell

Tolling inside to the rhythm of his heart

And when he's sun-burnt the taste is easy to tell

Strawberry sharp and sweet and tart.

Darkness descends on his eyes, over his hands,

The smell of dusty velvet and dry leaves.

The warmth of his wrist is white as Florida sands,

Like the drape of lace on a lady's sleeve.

Feelings swirl in the strangest combinations

When the smell of tears is something new.

If Charles were a color he would be the taste of expectations

Bitter and sweet and blue.