You like her because she seems lonely
like you.  She says the birds
are my only friends and her voice
sounds like moonlight stumbling
across the pavement. Home
means tracing trails
of bruised clouds and waiting
for rain.  We are always compared
to former versions of ourselves
so it is best not to linger.
She is gone
before you can ask
for her name. You are practically
pleading with her
vanishing silhouette.