Persons with synesthesia experience “extra” sensations. The letter T may be navy blue; a sound can taste like pickles. Vladimir Nabakov and his mother were synesthetes; Kandinsky claimed to be; Scriabin and Rimsky-Korsakov disagreed on the colors of given notes and musical keys. For most people synesthesia is ineffable: that which by definition cannot be imparted to others or adequately put into words. It may be impossible for science to scrutinize such phenomena whose qualities must be experienced first-hand. As also with Love.
I.
Love: the fact of love,
the animal Love alone
distinct from its habitat:
its fur and fins and plumes,
appetites and scents, coloration
and camouflage, quaint rituals
and annoying habits
and odd and startling sounds;
its slippery roe and sticky afterbirth,
the way it glistens dewy
in the soft morning light
or is the dew itself,
condensation of exhaled dreams.
II.
The metallic sheen of L,
the smells and tastes of o and e,
the muscular feel of v,
oh the texture, the shape, of V:
arms upstretched or legs astride—
what colors do you see
in the field behind your eyes?
Do poppies bloom, do crimson fish
swim the blue-green sea?
The colors I see are not
colors of pigment,
they are light brilliant
and gem-like. I do not
have a true purple letter
or number
and I wish I did.
III.
Last year I discovered that H had under certain rare circumstances
the ability to become shiny brass.
And my plain gray X one day suddenly became a delicious salmon
when I saw the name of an English town, Ixworth.
IV.
Remember
when the north sky
thrummed green waves
of whalebone and bassoon
through our chests
’till our very bones buzzed
wintergreen?
How the cold starlight
sang spindrift and
menthol melodies?
The sweet vanilla
of Jeffrey pine,
the fresh spring wind
and melting snow?
Do you believe in love
at first smell?
V.
Last night I dreamt of mangoes
sweet-orange dripping down
your arms and chin.
In we dove
splashed and drifted
and walked the wave-worn beach—
kelpy tide-line snake
and white sand drying
on sunburned feet.
I still taste salt
air, still see
sets of waves rolling
’cross the page.
I still feel mangoey-orange
this blue-gray day.
VI.
Your name, Raymond, she said, tastes like chocolate.
VII.
I wake to starlight
after eight days
of snow.
Your name calls me,
Wendy, in the
northeast sky—
Cassiopeia—
two Vs joined
like you and I
hand in hand,
W that sings
silken purple.
So this is the color of Love.
The Bard of Liminga 
Love your poem. Here’s an observation from a fellow synesthete, the word “love” always appears red to me. But of the words in your poem, “plumes” looks purple because “p” is always purple and it is the first letter. “Roe” is orange, because for some reason “R” is always a sort of burnt orange color and the yellow “o” makes the word a brighter orange. But none of the letters in the word “love” are red by themselves. “L” is silver-blue, “o” is sunshine yellow, “v” is blue-violet, and “e” is usually green and sometimes orange. How does that add up to red? Being a synesthete is not only impossible to explain to those who are not, but it doesn’t make much sense to me either. It has merely always been that way. I love the way you wove the synesthesia experience into this poem.
thank you, great comment