Here, again I try counting (on)
Minutes minutely, years apart, every-year, every-man.
With moist fingertips, the broken rod of balance is elusive to feel.
Adapting hasn’t been its screw.
Failed numerals and irrationality are somewhat parallel within maths and philosophy.
I feel it. I haven’t learnt it though. The year had been one of suppositions.
So (suppose) you can only float indefinitely in your niche . Suppose elasticity, always, has some broken base underneath. It does not assess definite collages every year.
So my ‘spine’ is more elastic than you think from your overcharged territories. I think I cant have it broken through an excessive sway each time nor freeze it erect, senseless.
I will let it move.
I will love from afar the girl I don’t admit caring for. No,not your hopeless romantic. I will keep that elastic too. Both full and draughty at times. Adapting is a virtue like no other but it engulfs elasticity.
So I silently let it drop in between the setbacks and celebrations of each revision.
Of every encounter,(suppose), I have looked for expansion in all its extending and contracting moments.
Say between al frenzy and feelings of loss.
Between al equity and duplicity, I shall (suppose) locate the median within acts.