Yellow

Sight It’s the hush before sunrise breaking loose— lemon light spilling through the slats, a field of dandelions laughing into the sky’s blue face. It’s the color children use when they draw the sun too big for the paper, insisting joy won’t be contained. Sound Yellow buzzes. It’s the hum of bees at work, a brass trumpet on a summer sidewalk, laughter skipping across a kitchen, window open, someone singing badly, boldly. It’s the fizz of soda rising, a screen door slamming shut behind freedom. Touch Yellow is warm skin— not hot, not sharp, just enough to remind you you’re alive. It’s sun-warmed cotton, buttery soft, like pages of an old letter folded too many times. It’s the press of someone’s hand in yours when they don’t let go first. Taste It’s citrus— not just the tang, but the wake-up. Lemon tart on your tongue, sherbet melting too fast, a sunflower seed tucked behind your teeth. It’s morning, fresh, uncertain, hopeful. Smell Yellow smells like peeled oranges and sunscreen, like birthday candles blown out too soon. It’s daffodils in a glass jar, honey dripping from a spoon, sunlight baked into linen. A scent you recognize before you remember where it came from.