thinking still about you and how dividends and remainders and quotients and quadrants of me and what did not add up to the sum of what i had suspected and planned for in ink unthinking and sure of you and my feet planted fixed and certain in the soil and i couldn't have known then how the worms would thrive in the aftermath of you and the storm would bring many changes underneath the surface of the earth and my questions left unanswered still would be forgotten with the wind swept up and displaced and tangled up in dirt swirling and worms multiplying unending and unnerving and uprooting me and the taproots once sure in their place between my toes now as far flung into the distance as decimal point places and infinite theories like pi and our faces shining and braced for the changes and papercuts and things i was not looking for as i made up stories and told them to myself as you slept of things we would be someday and of equations and things that still don't make sense without leftovers and mold spores and wet socks and cold toes and you and the way i know you sleep tonight unconcerned with the math of what came after me or how happily ever matters more to the pillow that i punch out instead of you and how i keep adding up nights spent with you and still subtracting is not as tactile and useful in calculating us and fighting with sensory truths the proof of the premises disguised by what i fell for and wrapped up like the hardcover empty inside wearing your jacket and shaking the truth from the lies.