Two lines, no capital letters, no punctuation, and a sentence that stops before it feels finished. I know nothing about amone beyond the name on the page, so everything here rests on what the words do. In a poem this short, that turns out to be a lot.
The situation is sketched in a breath. A speaker addresses someone directly and reports an observation: it "doesn't seem like you missed me." The speaker doesn't say "you didn't miss me." The phrase "doesn't seem like" describes appearances, what can be seen from outside. The poem never says what the evidence is, but judging by the wording, it is some kind of absence, a silence or lack of response that the speaker has been reading closely. The second line then draws the conclusion: "guess I ment that little." The word "guess" repeats the hedge and makes the verdict sound like a shrug. Underneath, the logic is quietly harsh. If you had missed me, it would have shown. It didn't show. So I must have counted for little. The speaker takes the measure of their own worth entirely from someone else's reaction to their absence.
That is the central idea: the sting of finding you matter less than you hoped, and the offhand language people use to hide it. The tone says "no big deal" while the content says the opposite, and the poem lives in the gap between the two.
The construction is bare. Nothing rhymes, since "me" and "little" don't echo each other, and there is no pattern to lean on. The rhythm does the work instead. The first line has about seven syllables and falls into three or four beats: DOESn't SEEM like you MISSED me. The second is shorter, six syllables: GUESS I ment that LITtle. The speaker seems to run out of breath. Both lines also end on unstressed syllables, "me" and "-tle," so neither lands with a firm thud. The voice trails off, and the last word is "little," which is itself small. The poem shrinks to the size of what it says.
Some individual words carry more than they first seem to. "Missed" is the obvious one, meaning to feel the lack of someone. It also means to fail to hit a target, and a reader can hear that second sense faintly: "you missed me," as in overlooked me, went straight past. Then there is the spelling. As printed, the poem reads "ment," not the standard "meant." I can't know whether that is a slip or a choice, but it affects the reading either way. It looks careless, which suits a speaker pretending not to care, yet it also suggests the guard is down and the words came out unpolished. The phrase "that little" works like a gesture, a finger and thumb held almost together. It is also left hanging. The natural ending, "to you," is missing, and that is the very thing the poem is about. The speaker either can't bring themselves to finish or doesn't need to.
Other small choices add to the sense of speech overheard. The first line drops its opening word (we'd normally say "it doesn't seem like"), and the lowercase, unpunctuated style reads like something typed quickly and sent before second thoughts. That is an inference from the form, not a fact about how it was written. The title is only three asterisks, the usual stand-in for "untitled," and here they work like a pause before speaking. Because nothing introduces the poem, it begins mid-thought, as if we have walked into the middle of a conversation the speaker has been having alone.
What makes it worth reading is its restraint. There is no accusation and no "you hurt me," only a calm-sounding calculation that gives away more than it means to. The missing full stop matters too, since nothing is closed off and the feeling is left open. Poems are often praised for saying a lot in a little space. This one does something slightly different: it says it was worth little, in very few words, and the smallness of the poem makes that painful claim convincing.