Stopped

Again, with the there, then I did-- and the instrument’s half-life, unlike shoes or cars or tools or pens-- extends when I think on you. She frogs-up when I'm all toady, resting padded, encased. You cripple me with your eloquent simplicity. My long thoughts plus your oh, so short answers equals polished, finished, finely figured and, down to the last digit, nimble, (keeping your shoes on, of course) a sum some one ought to. See? It's mute.