Most poems about lost love insist that the loss is total. This one begins that way and then, in its last two lines, quietly argues with itself. The speaker opens by saying she sometimes misses "having him around," and ends by doubting that she misses him at all. What she may be mourning, the poem suggests, is the memory of how it felt to be with him.
The structure carries this shift. There is no rhyme and no regular meter, only short, plain lines that sound closer to a diary entry than to a crafted verse. The early lines slow everything down: "Feeling his warmth, / His voice, / His mind, / And his soul." Each one sits alone, almost like someone counting, or touching objects one by one to check they are still remembered. The list also climbs from the sensory (warmth, voice) to the invisible (mind, soul), as if the speaker is reaching for the most intimate things first. But look at the verbs. She misses "having" him and "feeling" his warmth. Even in the tenderest lines, the focus drifts to what he did for her, which prepares us for the ending.
The next sentence says more about her than about him: "He made me happy, / I felt like no one could hurt me." Love is described as protection, a shield someone else held up. The poem never says how he left. "Since he's gone" is deliberately open, and the text gives us no reason to fill it in. What it does show is the effect. The person who made her feel unhurtable has become the source of the hurt, and the poem's repeated "But now" marks that turn. The phrase appears twice, and the word "now" keeps coming back ("I don't know what to feel now," "not even sure... now"). The speaker seems stuck in the present tense, unable to see past it.
The central image is the "eternal garden of sadness," and it is oddly chosen. A garden is normally a place of cultivation, beauty and growth. Here it has become something closer to a maze: she needs someone to "lead the way out," and he is not there. The word "eternal" makes the problem sound permanent, and the sentence assumes that only he could have shown her the exit. There is an irony in that. The garden is sad, but it is still a garden, something that grows and has been tended. Grief, the image hints, is not just something that happens to her. It is a place she is living in and, perhaps without meaning to, keeping alive.
The title adds a second word that the poem itself only reveals at the end: "Memories." Read back from the final line, the garden seems to be made of them. That final line also breaks the pattern of the poem. The earlier lines end in commas or full stops, but the last has no punctuation at all. It is longer than anything before it, and it runs on without closing. It reads like a thought still unfinished, and it contradicts the opening: "Sometimes I miss having him around" becomes "I'm not even sure if I actually miss him." The word "actually" matters here. It sounds like someone checking her own feelings for honesty and being surprised by the result.
The poem is worth reading because it refuses a tidy consolation. It does not say she has healed, and it does not say she is still devastated. It admits the more uncomfortable middle position: that missing a person can be tangled up with missing who you were beside them, and that nostalgia can be easier to hold than the person. The vocabulary is simple, with almost nothing fancy except the one extended metaphor, and that simplicity is what makes the honesty land. The poem is signed with a username, and nothing beyond the text is needed to feel its confusion. A reader who has ever grieved something that was not quite a person, but the feeling of a time, will recognize it at once.