Mark Maxey's speaker is grieving a relationship that has ended, and he tries to make sense of it by turning time into math. He counts the sunrises and sunsets before the other person was born, before they met, and during the short time they were together: only 50. Again and again he interrupts himself with the line "But what are numbers," as if he knows arithmetic can't explain what he feels.
The numbers keep failing him. Fifty days look tiny next to thousands, yet to him they feel brighter and more alive than all the rest. He says those days helped him "bloom again," and now the silence of his phone hurts more than any total. The calculations grow tangled, which suggests a mind going in circles and trying to find "rhyme or reason."
The mood is wistful, hurt, and a little bewildered. By the end, the speaker is left asking what numbers are worth when the person he cared about seems to count him as nothing.