Lexical gustatory synesthesia means that all my words have tastes: emotionally charged phonemes with textures and temperatures. Like how Lisa's first kiss tasted like waxy vanilla, or that the age of thirteen was the scent of synthetic birthday cakes. And how all vacations are flavored the same: like the running water from hotel faucets, always tinged with the chlorine from a kidney shaped pool surrounded by children of businessmen.
Love is a word that can mean just about anything, the same as nice or relatable. But to me it means the taste of the runny egg omelet you made me on the Monday after my job interview. It's solid in my mouth with the memory of the bits of green pepper that weren't quite cooked enough. How I didn't get the job, but you told me you loved me and it bloomed on my tongue. It shifted from the salty taste of recently cried tears that my dog licked off my face after I burned my hand, to the yolks of that overcast afternoon.
Orange will always taste like oranges, the same way that sun will always pucker like lemons. And first kisses will taste like vanilla lip gloss. But love will swing from a dog's affection to the taste of breakfast on a weekday night, until it eventually settles into the coppery seasoning of your jaw bone—the peppery taste of your neck.
About the Author: Jane-Rebecca Cannarella is an editor at HOOT Review and a cat enthusiast who plays the piano poorly. She chronicles the many ways which she embarrasses herself at the website: www.
Story Song: "Foxglove" by Murder by Death
Photo Credit: Elisabeth Clem/Poppy and Pinecone