Blonde hair never used to be the first thing I woke up to in the morning. It used to be the ceiling of my small room, the sound of my mother preparing a feast large enough for an army, and the feeling of the sun warming my skin as it climbed tentatively through my window. I used to walk downstairs and have a plate already piled high with food I couldn't consume, have brothers trying to speak through mouthfuls of bacon or toast.
But my bed used to only occupy me.
Now I wake up to blonde hair. It scatters itself over my pillows, falls like water into the deepest recesses of the sheets. Hands always lay reaching for me, always stretching to touch my cheek, tangle in my hair, rest on my side. Sometimes, the hands wake me, sometimes stroking my skin and other times brushing the (always) damp hair back from my forehead.
I still wake up to the feeling of the sun warming my skin, but it no longer creeps into the room. She welcomes the light, beckons it, seduces it. She spreads herself among the sheets, letting the amorous glow cause her to gleam. She makes me crawl for her without any beckoning. I curl into her radiance, pleading for touch without her words.
My bed used to hold myself alone. The sun used to light up my room in the morning.
I realize now just how dark it was.