I open the door to Vera’s room, fall into her bed with a crying fit and wait for her to hug me.

[Something happens that I can’t define further. A new rupture, a new, more terrible injury with E.]

I now count the minutes every day.
And I write along my pain.
And I become leathery and bitter.
But I can break it open.

I used to say: breakups are determined by how much you can go.

I wish the feeling I have right now would stay. This openness and acceptance.