There are two colours in my head

I think if I wrote out my life for you, in a series of stories, it'd serve as a far more coherent description of who I am. Maybe it would explain to you why I am this way, and why that, instead of the things I say to you when you are too sleepy to listen, and of course, your voice is heavy with sleep. It makes me mad, but it is a tender image, so I don't make a huge fuss out of it, and the next day I tell you I love you anyway.
My life is the autumn leaves that never fall in this city, because it feels like there's two seasons, wouldn't you agree? I think it has something to do with the maritime influence; you know, I can never imagine myself living in a hot climate even though we grew up here, you and I. I've always loved the winter. Maybe it has something to do with the way I was brought up, which of course, you wouldn't know about.
Sometimes I don't know who I am. It's just transitory identity crisis, and I talk myself out of it. But sometimes, I can't answer a lot of things about myself, even when you ask leading questions. Stories would help because my stories are usually one-sided, and leave little room for conflicting view-points (for the record, I used to be the one initiating, you made me realise I don't anymore and I think it has something to do with bad past experiences).
I wonder what your opinion would be on a person having two lovers or the moon and lunar madness, and if you think you own me. Maybe if you tried sometimes, I wouldn't be such a tarnished out-of-tune radio. It is a bit funny how I bottle up, and then gush out everything I've been keeping in. You've made me learn to laugh at it, and that's another story in the making.
The one thing I wouldn't want you to feel confused about is that I love you, and that I am especially great with love stories, without the possessive noun, of course.