Nobody is named in these three lines, and that is the first thing worth noticing. The speaker misses "late night talks" and "midday walks" but never says who shared them or why they have stopped. A move, a quarrel, a loss, a friendship that drifted: the words allow any of these and commit to none. What remains is the feeling with its story stripped away. It is the ache of missing not a person's grand gestures but the small, repeated ways of being together.
The sentence is built to hold its feeling back. "It's those late night talks / those midday walks / that I miss the most" is a cleft construction, and its verb does not arrive until the last line. We get the memories first, laid out like objects on a table, and only then the admission. Even the word "I" waits for the final line. Until then the poem is all remembered things, and the person doing the remembering steps in at the last moment, almost reluctantly. The repeated "those" matters too. It is the word we use to point at something across a distance, where "these" would have felt close enough to touch. Add the plurals, talks and walks rather than a talk or a walk, and the lines describe habit rather than single events. What is missed is a routine.
The two images are opposites that fit together. Late night is dark and made of voices, while midday is bright and made of movement. Between them they sketch a whole day, and by extension a whole shared life, with no description beyond the times themselves. Neither activity is dramatic. Midday is when most people are busy, so the walks may have been time deliberately set aside, though that is only an inference the poem hints at. Late-night conversation, meanwhile, is commonly the kind where guards drop and subjects wander. The first image therefore suggests intimacy without ever using the word.
Sound does more work than the poem's length suggests. "Talks" and "walks" form a clean rhyme, a couplet that closes almost before it opens. Then the third line refuses to rhyme, and "most" lands with nothing to answer it, which suits a poem about absence. It is not cut loose entirely, though. Its long o echoes the "those" of the earlier lines, and the soft m of "midday", "miss" and "most" hums from the second line into the last like a held note. The rhythm is just as carefully uneven. The first line can stack three strong beats in a row (late, night, talks), so it moves slowly, the way a long night does. The second line has four syllables against five in the first and third, so it is shorter and lighter, as if a step were missing from the walk. The last line rises toward its stressed final word and stops there.
Small choices of presentation add to the effect. The lowercase "it's" makes the poem begin like a thought already under way. The title is three asterisks, the usual stand-in for an untitled piece, so there is no label to hold on to. There is no punctuation at all, not even a full stop, so nothing is formally closed off.
The poem's quiet strength lies in "the most." Those two words imply a ranking. The speaker has been going through what is gone and has found that the plain, unrecorded things outweigh whatever else might be on the list. That is a recognisable truth, since we rarely know which hours matter until they stop. The poem says it by being as unadorned as the talks and walks it mourns, and that plainness is its argument.