Since she was a child, she saw colors in sounds

and felt the way you'd pronounce a word with her fingers.

Her feet were in the sea and her hands in the trees,

Anchors, reassuring. Solid bits to tie the drifting veils in her head to.

Bugs and plants and wind and dirt kept her sane and satisfied

far past what any person seemed to be able to.

She'd walk with them and smile, sincerely enjoying her time with peers,

but the thought of a home at the bottom of the ocean,

of existence as an everlasting patch of sand

was what really set her heart on fire,

what brought her to life.

There was an untouchable, indescribably profound piece of sadness

in the very heart of anything she'd do,

after she realized that's not how the real world works,

rising up from pits in her stomach to reach around and wind tight knots

in her throat and mind and breath.

Slowly she choked on this sentiment until the colors stopped pouring from her.

Though they stayed as tints and shades

rippling in her muscles when she ran,

pooling calmly in her heels when she came to rest in a spot of sun

quiet and kind.

A fanciful phrase from a friend or a story will slosh the hues

against the walls of her mind, set her off again,

tilting toward a horizon she knows doesn't exist,

but is still worth reaching for.