Jamie's "Words" is about loving someone you can't bring yourself to talk to. The speaker opens with a list of numbers, from the thousands of words available to the five vowels, to show how strange it is that none of them are enough. Anxiety is pictured as a rider holding a horse back, keeping the speaker's tongue under control when they want to speak.
So the speaker watches quietly, loses sleep, and promises to say something "one day." The line "This isn't a love poem" sounds like a denial, but the obsession and longing say otherwise. The speaker also insists they mean no harm, which suggests worry about how this silent attention might look.
The last stanza turns darker. Words are described as burning, and the speaker fears that confessing love could cost them a friendship. The final lines carry the central ache: the longer this person stays close, the deeper the feelings grow. The mood is tender, nervous and a little desperate.