Six short lines, and nearly every one is a promise. "I will never forget," "I will remember," "I will believe": lauray builds the poem on the future tense, the grammar of vows. All we have is the name and the text, with nothing reliable about who wrote it or why, so the poem has to speak for itself. It does, and with remarkable economy.
The speaker addresses someone who did something, and the poem never says what. The insistence on never forgetting suggests it was painful, but that is an inference, since the deed stays blank. The same person also shared a past with the speaker ("what we did"). The central idea is that love does not need forgetting in order to survive. Many poems about heartbreak treat healing as erasure. Here the speaker refuses that bargain. She will keep the wound and the shared happiness together, and she will love anyway.
The poem is built as three couplets, each a statement followed by a clipped echo: "Nothing of it." "Everything of it." The two fragments look like opposites but mean the same thing, because forgetting nothing is remembering everything. The speaker comes at one idea from the bad memories and then from the good. The phrase "all what we did" is slightly non-standard, which gives the line a spoken, unpolished sound, as if the words came out before they could be tidied.
The pronouns tell their own story. The poem moves from "you did" to "we did" to "I do," from the other person's act, through shared history, to the speaker's own choice. The tenses shift with them, from past deeds to the present "do" and "love." The last word is "you" again, but the person who began as the one acting has become the one who is loved. The speaker has taken back control of the story without rewriting it.
The sound work is quiet but effective. The first four lines end on "did," "it," "did," "it," identical words returning like a mind circling the same memory. Only in the last two lines does a true rhyme arrive: "do" and "you." After four lines of repetition, the rhyme feels like something settling into place, as though the admission is finally allowed to land. The rhythm helps. Lines two and four are tiny, almost breathless. The final line is the longest and slows everything down: "Even in the fact that I still love you." That "Even" is a concession, as if love were the one thing on the list the speaker might be expected to drop, and "the fact" makes it sound like testimony, something she cannot argue away. "Still" matters too. It implies that time has passed and that love should have faded by now.
There is almost no imagery in the usual sense, with no weather, objects or scenery. The poem runs on bare verbs: forget, remember, believe, do, love. Keeping "did" vague also keeps the poem open, so any reader can fill it with their own hurt, and the speaker, who presumably does not need to explain it to the person addressed, doesn't.
The title adds another layer. «#Still love you» borrows the hashtag from social media, where feeling gets compressed into a searchable label. The title also drops the "I," like a hurried text message, while the poem insists on "I will" again and again. The title sounds public and quick, and the poem itself is slow and private. That contrast may be the point, since it suggests how much sits behind a phrase that easy to type.
What makes the poem worth reading is its honesty. It doesn't claim forgiveness, and it doesn't pretend the past was only good or only bad. "I will believe in what I do" makes love an act of self-trust, not just a feeling that happens to someone. For students, it also shows how much a poem can do with plain words: repetition to suggest obsession, a late rhyme to suggest acceptance, and one long final line to say the hardest thing last.