Her hair

Like some cheap gimmick from the 70s, her hair changed color
with her mood.

I met her when it was orangey-red,
like the passion that was growing in my heart.

Then it became dark-red like the blood
that had poured from her veins
not that long before.

Her eyes and her smile were all
I needed, her skin soft
and flawless.

She cried and I held her,
she talked and I
listened.

Our embraces were never-ending
and all too short.
Her breasts a perfect
fit for my hands.

In the morning she would go,
leaving behind her the
smell of our
never-consumed passion.

She told me I was gentle,
that she needed me and
that she felt safe in
my arms.

Then she became a blonde
and told me her eyes
wanted to gaze into
the eyes of others.

She had started to
feel safe in the
arms of someone
else.

Now, she's reading
cards somewhere
on the other
side of town,
but don't
you need
a soul
to do
that?