Given an ordered series, (say the alphabet or say the pages in a novel about how we met) if the end is somehow the same as or before the beginning, I give you less than nothing. Does the woodcutter love the forest and the tree as he cuts? Does the carpenter love the warp of the lumber at the saw’s edge? It seems so as I measure your body’s nodes with my hands. In the woods, I ask questions of every creature that I encounter. “How do you resemble my desire? Are you somehow more or less than what I need?” Often, yes. Often ascending and descending the face of a mossy overlook. Often plunging my heart back into a cloud of noise and numbers. Often reducing the universe into half a universe. Often cherishing an apple core. Often foraging for something rare. To find the midpoint and the radius of your body. When there is only one thing remaining, to touch it, to feel, and to ask again. “Are you somehow more or less than what I need?” If no, and if our beginning and our end are reconciled, the door opens for a moment and I point to where we met. If yes, I return less than nothing.