Too quiet in the apartment home this morning. Eric in denial of being hung over and my stomach making noises that at the present time I ignore, counting change in the palm on my hand for yet another pack of Camel Lights and no real need to do anything of importance right now, but to sit here on the gray couch that James left me when he left me, parting gifts along with the bed, the coffee table and the TV stand, and wonder in my own thoughts if I should be doing something else with these words that could be useful at some other point.

Patrick has accused me of lying to him about Sid. But I know he did at one point know, and denies it now to save face with the new controlling wife, who should be happy I left him when I did, or otherwise she would not have him now. He would have never left me, he loved me too much to do so. He was like that then. So blind. But, isn't this how many of us are when we allow our hearts to guide us too much.

I should start of these stories soon. Perhaps poetry was just a gateway to fiction for me? But, I have tried the stories before and they never got very far. But, at least I would be writing and that today would be something more than nothing. I have things that may make better stories than poems right now. But, would the new writer's voice seep in too much? Not sound like my own? I am going to do something great. This much I know.

Or, I could just clean the house. Shower. Try to take in some sun. Let everything go and just move on too.