And we coped in different ways. She made herself sadder, because it was something she knew. I ran away from emotion, and hoped desperately for “out of sight, out of mind”. I spent my time writing, and struggling to find a hopeful line for the end of a poem. She read sad stories, and they gave her a kind of peace. We were both familiarly acquainted with a ball of dread in your chest. And the feeling of being used up if around people for too long. And habits that were hard to break but somehow made it better. And we spoke about it and took comfort in the conversation. I wondered if we were made for more than that.
to a good friend of mine, who knows the way it is.