she had the most beautiful blonde-black hair: it streamed as though it was sparkling gold in the night sky, as though each curl was made by winding starlight around a mountain until it laughed with joy, as though, when she straightened it, the universe held its breath, as every atom turned towards her:
she had the most beautiful blonde-black hair. and i said to her, "it will kill me if you cut your hair -" as though each strand was a separate story, a separate poem, a separate memory of dreams -
(like ripe fruit, dreams like the scent of morning dew, or the sight of blossoms fluttering in the wind; with her arched back as graceful as the dance of rose petals to their suitor the spring)
she had the most beautiful blonde-black hair, and if you saw her smile in the dark you would see the glow that her heart emitted: as though her smile was the moment spring bursts in endless euphoria from the ground, as though the moment her moon-like lips curve upwards, the universe declares itself her servant, servant of her smile...
she had fire in her hair. did you ever brush against her? did you feel the blaze within you? the demand that you pull your life out of your dreams and hand it to her, hand it openly to her, say "here... for your smile..."
she stopped smiling when she dyed her hair. as though, one by one,
each star in her smile waved goodbye,
leaving us with the bitter taste of ash.