When my vision dies I will still see her in the palette of her voice

Her guitar makes me see colour

in brush strokes formed gently,

as if each string plucked is the hair of a brush

and each chord change is a new swathe of paint.

I imagine if she touched me it would feel like

snow: a breath-intake of sensation, as if too cold

upon my skin, and then melting into me, water droplet fingertips

running over me and tormenting me.

When she speaks, it’s that day in the Jewish patisserie

with my nose up against the glass

and being so elated because I am five years old

and I can smell bread.