A poem that opens by confessing it cannot be written is placing a bold bet, because it then has to keep going. hediddj's untitled piece, whose title is only three asterisks, asks "How do you say that which can not be said" and spends the rest of its length answering by trying. The asterisks suit it. They are a title that declines to name anything, just as the speaker declines to name the feeling that fills the poem.
What it describes is the dizzy first stretch of a romance: the arrival of a beloved "in that blue satin suit," the first conversation, the walk, the joined hands, and a reluctant parting. Its central idea is that love of this kind distorts the ordinary rules of both language and time. The speaker's claim about words is slippery, though. "It's not that I can't put it into words / It's just that / Words simply ended where my story had begun." The line break after "It's just that" works like a stammer. Yet the poem then undercuts the claim: people say you are speechless when you first meet someone, but "I don't recall a moment / When we were quiet." The couple never ran out of things to say. What failed was the speaker's later attempt to measure the feeling afterwards.
The form is free verse, with no fixed rhyme scheme and no steady metre. Lines swing from the long, breathless "Looking into this coffee eyes I got lost" to blunt fragments like "For life." Those short lines land like vows. Repetition does the work that rhyme usually would: "All to myself / All for me," "One touch made me a believer / One touch and I was yours," "you were mine / And mine alone." The effect is of someone talking to a friend and unable to stop circling the best part. Two lines sit inside single quotation marks. The second, "'Distance, timming, breakdown, fighting'," reads, judging by the text, like a list of warnings the speaker had heard about relationships, and the next line brushes it aside: "we had made it work."
Time is the poem's most interesting game. "And the minute we met, the minutes stopped" plays on the double meaning of the word, and time becomes "an entity unbeknownst to us." Hours pass unnoticed. Then, near the end, time reasserts itself in a single clause: "I had only blinked and it was time to part." The gap between stopped minutes and a single blink captures how happy hours feel from the inside and from memory.
The imagery moves from the edible to the cosmic. The beloved is "something so sweet," with "coffee eyes" and a "chocolatey abyss." Then the sweetness turns dangerous. The eyes become "infinite pools of burning desire," a blend of water and fire that suits a moment of being both drowned and scorched. Fire recurs in "burning memories," as though the day were being branded into the mind. Finally the scale expands to "the whole universe condensed into three words." The poem never says what they are, which keeps its opening promise that some things cannot be said. The Atlas image is a neat reversal. Atlas, who carries the heavens, "would crumble" under the weight of those words, yet spoken by the beloved they "lifted the burden of the heavens" from the speaker's shoulders. Here the same words are both unbearably heavy and weightless.
Some of the language is possessive: "I had won because you were mine," and the beloved is "a masterpiece," almost a prize. A careful reader might hesitate over this. But the voice is giddy rather than controlling, and the poem's final turn softens it. "I'm not sad, this is not a goodbye / It's the chance for another 'hello'." The word that began the encounter, once "the most melodious thing I had ever heard," now promises a return. The closing image is the "foolish grin" that "creeps up" whenever the memory replays, so the poem ends in a small, physical, slightly embarrassed smile.
That is where its significance lies. It does not try to be clever about love. It records the clumsy, overflowing, slightly exaggerated way happiness actually sounds when someone is still inside it, and it admits openly that the words fall short. For a student reader it shows how a poem can succeed by dramatising its own limits.