This was the one thing he was good at. Painting moons, leaving them in trees where they shone gold or silver, the night sky claiming them like stars. This was the only way he knew to tell her that without her, he wasn’t Moon. Without her, the girl they called Honey, the girl who licked her own name off knives when Aracely wasn’t looking and off spoons when she was, he was as diminished as an almost-new moon. He was nothing but a young moon, the thin thread of light that clawed its way along the edge of a dark new moon.
