Everything is heartbreak today.  The woman with the car doors open.  The empty recycling bin. 

There is a space somewhere under my rib cage.  It is weary, aching, like a waiting room.

 I lit a candle. Ate an orange. Wrote a poem on the wall.

Still it sits, still, that hollow, dreading being filled.

I used to have ideas.  I remember having them.  Thinking things, then putting them into words.   Ideas that weren't connected to the people in front of me or the dishes or city politics.  Ideas that came from other ideas or the sky or books or the way two shades of blue looked next to an empty box.

I told a lie yesterday.  That losing my wallet was more of a hassle than having my identity stolen.  The old lady at the party smiled at me because she had just lost her purse or it had been stolen and she was deep into getting everything sorted out.  But I don't worry at all when I lose my wallet.  And when my identity was stolen I thought about who I was and how little it had to do with my finances.  And how much it did.  And when all your money goes away it hardly matters where it goes.