Loneliness

Loneliness
Jonathan Moya

I watch her turn off  the light
and sit motionless by my bed,

her head drooping, her black-gray curls 
almost touching my shoulder,

The familiar wind outside 
becomes silent, then turns to rain.

I take her hand, try to cling to her.
She evaporates into the  rain-dark air, 
 
gray-black curls  
almost touching my shoulder.