Wrapping my arms around your thin waist, I pull you into me. Your bare body intertwines with my own. You are a blonde on the days that I feel adventurous, because somehow blondes never cease to excite me. The nights that I feel scared, cold, dreadfully alone, you become my brunette. You calm me, whispering soothing words into my ear as you stroke my hair lovingly. I must ask you, though: Are you my black haired goddess? Have you been sent from the heavens to watch over me? Or are you are the red haired girl, the pigtailed young lady from next door? Are you my exotic taste of liquid sunshine?
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As the mixture of our two bodies move rhythmically on the scuffed dancefloor, I close my eyes and wait for silence. Sensing the end is near, I fill my lungs with your essence, and try as I might to hold you inside of me, I can't help but let you go. Blinking, I make out through a soft haze that you are not blonde. Nor are you my brunette, though I still crave your warmth and reassurance. You cannot embrace me; the gods have taken you back. The sunshine is gone. The music has stopped.
In fact, you are nothing. A tall lamp with a shattered bulb, taken from the far corner of my 5th floor apartment. I am not complaining. As you stand there, cold and lifeless, I smile as the music starts anew. And I can smile, for never once have you called me ugly. Never once have you made me feel ashamed.
Author's Note: Sensing backlash, let me make it clear that I in no way endorse any sort of stereotypes, especially those based on hair color. Thank you, and have a cookie for reading.
"Imperious, choleric, irascible, extreme in everything, with a dissolute imagination the like of which has never been seen... there you have me in a nutshell, and kill me again or take me as I am, for I shall not change."
From his Last Will & Testament, Marquis de Sade