Poems about missing someone usually sound like surrender: the speaker pines, pleads and promises anything. "soul talk," posted under the username lyndsey599, does something less common. In three lines it admits the ache, then swerves, mid-sentence, into a refusal to be ruled by it. A username is all we have to go on, so the best way in is to look closely at the words themselves.
The first line is plain and conversational: "i miss the important talks we used to have." Its eleven syllables run at the pace of ordinary speech, and its verbs set up a before and after, "miss" against "used to have." The word "important" is oddly flat for something so intimate. It sounds like a word for meetings or exams, not for confidences. Yet that flatness feels honest, as if the speaker is naming the loss without dressing it up. Notice, too, that "have" turns conversation into a possession, something once owned and now gone.
Then the poem drops to its shortest line: "digging into our souls." It has five syllables, no capital letter, no full stop and no main verb, so the phrase hangs like a memory with no sentence to belong to. "Digging" is a physical, laborious verb. It suggests that these talks were not easy chat but effort, hands in the earth, uncovering what was buried. It is also the last moment the poem lets the two people share a pronoun. "our souls" is the final trace of "we."
After that, the pronouns drift apart. The third line is a long, breathless run of twenty-odd syllables with no pause until the end: "but it doesn't mean i'm going to give up everything i'm doing to get that back from you." The small word "but" is the hinge of the whole poem. Everything before it is longing, and everything after it is a boundary. The line sounds like someone talking themselves through a decision, or answering an accusation before it has been made. Two "i'm"s appear, and the "we" of line one has become "i" and "you."
The line also repeats a sound. "Digging" in the second line is echoed by "going" and "doing" in the third. The same -ing ending that carried the soul-searching now carries the speaker's busy present, so the two activities seem to compete for the same space. Past intimacy, a verb of depth, is set against current life, a verb of motion. The speaker chooses motion, though not without cost.
"get that back from you" is the most pointed phrase. "Back" implies something was taken or withheld, and "from you" places it in the other person's hands. The speaker will not give up "everything" to retrieve it, and the poem never says what "everything" is. That vagueness lets the word feel enormous, and it suggests how much the speaker could stand to lose. Ending on "you" also leaves the other person with the final word, as though the next move is theirs.
There is no rhyme to soften any of this. "have," "souls" and "you" don't chime, and the lines grow lopsided, from eleven syllables to five to a sprawling twenty-odd. The proportions tell the story. One line is given to longing, one fragment to memory, and the longest stretch to self-protection. The lowercase "i" adds to the effect. It reads like a text message or a private note, and it makes the speaker's firmness more striking. A small, unassuming "i" is still insisting on its right to keep its own life.
The poem never says who "you" is or why the talks stopped. A friend, a partner or a relative would all fit, and that openness lets many readers slip into it. Its significance lies in this unglamorous honesty. It says that you can value closeness deeply and still refuse to pay any price for it. Real intimacy, the poem implies, takes two people digging, and one person cannot do it alone while giving up everything else.