I survey the distance from I to you and stifle a gasp.
The plan is to calculate and come up with sums, but I end up counting differences, instead. For example: your hurried steps plus my tentative ones equal a gap. Or: a definite blank is formed when my flights of fancy meet your appallingly firm hold on all things solid. At least I know I got those right.
Everyday, I wonder, though I almost always resolve to stop poking figures into the air. Because I have never been good with equations; because equations aren't figures one pokes into the air. Or are they?
The law of this states that and the law of that states this--I am mad to think I could make sense of things, though I'm pretty sure that you could. I count the number of squares between us and realize what exhausting shapes they are. So I turn my back and draw circles, instead, wishing I could disappear into them.
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