i'm counting out time

Her knees and stomach (and ribs) have gone weak with wonder - more than pain, more than pain - too many times to count.

Who. What. Which.

Questions. They're asking questions. The order doesn't intuit across her tongue quite so easily, as given, and the given first has the wrinkle of being old age's fumble, but they are questions.

Of course it's obvious. And Charles Wallace, who doesn't even ask questions, most times...

Love isn't only in questions. Neither is it only in answers.

Not asking why. Not asking how.

It cannot be called into question here. It is the only answer.