He stared at her the way he stared at the moon and the stars;
Longingly,
Waiting for something to happen,
A wish to come true or
A shadow to pass over the moon,
All while their cigarette smoke hung in the air of the living room,
Becoming as stale as they use to.

She stared at him the way she stared at the clouds;
Questioningly,
Wondering if the shapes she could make out now,
The faces and the animals and the boats,
Could change into something worth her eye strain,
All while the wind blew threw her hair,
Never rustling the pile of leaves that have been sitting there for a week.