I've made a hobby of staring at the moon. It reminds me of you and all those lonely nights we spent together, all the memories we made in this shoddy apartment, counting the stars and whispering I love you's.

It's been two summers since then, when you walked away with nothing but your painted canvases and a couple dollars change. You said you'd buy a bus ticket to Chicago and pedal your work through the streets; insisted that you'd be famous someday. You also said you'd call, but after months of silence, I shut off the line because waiting isn't worth it.

I had put my heart and soul into this place, attempting to make it a home. But you left with the flick of your overcoat and I have yet to see you since. The worst part is that I put my heart into you.

There's a crescent moon tonight and it reminds me of your grin. You were always so sly. I stare out the balcony window and start rattling off numbers for the stars. I get to twenty-three before I realize it's useless: the phone won't ever ring and the night won't feel warm again.