Eight short lines, and most of the emotion sits in the gaps between them. The speaker has spent a whole day longing for one person's face, voice and skin, only to find that person with someone else, "her," who is treated "like she's your best friend." The central idea is less simple jealousy than displacement. The speaker's hushed final claim, "I have been," suggests they believed that role was already theirs. Longing turns into a quiet argument about who matters.
The opening builds slowly. "Waiting all day long to see you" has no subject. Nobody says "I am waiting," so the speaker is reduced to the act itself, and the poem doesn't let an "I" appear until its penultimate line. Then come two fragments, each beginning with "To" and each closed off by a full stop: "To hear your voice. / To touch your skin." The senses move from sight to hearing to touch, each one closer than the last, so the wish grows more intimate with every line. The full stops matter too. Instead of one flowing sentence of desire, the lines stop short, as if the speaker can only get a little out at a time.
Then comes the poem's only question: "But what are you doing?" The "But" is a hinge, swinging the poem from yearning to accusation. The plain wording makes it sound less like a demand than a bewildered sigh. The answer is a word that echoes the opening: "Staying." "Waiting" and "Staying" share an -ing ending and a similar shape on the page, yet they sit on opposite sides of the situation. One person hangs in suspense while the other is comfortably settled. Notice, too, that the rival is only "her." She gets no name and no description, as though the speaker can't or won't give her more reality than a pronoun. The simile "Like she's your best friend" is the most loaded line. "Like" opens a gap between appearance and truth. It might be sarcasm, or it might show that the speaker isn't sure what the relationship really is. Either way, "best friend" is the phrase the speaker cannot bear to hear applied to someone else.
The ending is where the poem earns its sting. "I thought," breaks off at the line end, a small pause like an intake of breath, before "I have been." The grammar is slightly uneasy, a past "thought" followed by a present-perfect "have been," so the speaker sounds caught between what they believed and what they still insist is true. And been what? The poem never says. Readers will fill in "your best friend," but the blank also lets other answers in, such as the one who waits or the one who cares. The open sentence suits the situation, since the speaker's claim hangs unanswered just as the day itself was spent in suspense. The lines shrink as well, from eight syllables in the first line to two and three at the close, as if the speaker is deflating in front of us.
There is no regular rhyme or metre. This is free verse, and it is better for it, because a tidy rhyme scheme would make the hurt sound rehearsed. What it has instead are small echoes. "Friend" and "been" end on the same closing *n* sound, so the last words quietly answer each other. The hashtag in the title hints at a modern, informal voice, though that is an inference from the title alone. The language keeps that plainness, with everyday words, no ornate metaphors and no dramatic scenery.
The poem is worth reading for exactly this restraint. Many love poems try to be big. This one shows how small the setting of heartbreak can be, a day of waiting and a glimpse of someone else's company, and how a three-word sentence can carry it. It also catches something true about relationships: wanting someone and wanting to be valued by them are not the same thing, and the second hurt can cut deeper. By leaving the last thought unfinished, the poem trusts the reader to complete it, which is why it lingers.