SynesthesiaI've seen her like a ghost along the streets, shadowy and strange. When she walks, she seems to dissipate and fade into the cloudy sky, her clothes seeped in the rain. Her long black hair, soaked by the storm, and her warm gray eyes, all evanescent and ethereal in the dormant light, soak up the bitter, silvery light. She walks there on the side of the streets, sun or rain, August drought or November blizzard. I watch her from the window as my fingers stroke the dusty keys of the dying piano I haven't played for nearly a year now, and I love her. My weary fingers play this song softly, without confidence. There are no words to speak anym
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