Almost everything that matters here happens off the page. Someone sits with a phone or keyboard, wants to send three words, and doesn't. The message exists only as a quotation inside the poem: "really wanted to type 'i miss you'". The speaker reports the wish in the past tense and then explains the restraint in two flat clauses: "its not my place anymore / you're missing someone else now". The central idea is that the right to say "I miss you" depends on where you stand in another person's life, and the speaker has been moved out of that position.
The word that carries the poem is "miss", and it changes direction. In the quotation it is the speaker's own longing, aimed outward at "you". By the end it has become "missing", and now it belongs to the other person, who aims it at "someone else". The same verb that would have carried the feeling now shows it has nowhere to land. "Missing" also leaves a faint second meaning of absence. It is hard not to hear that the speaker is the one who is missing from the other person's thoughts.
"Place" is the other word to slow down on. The speaker doesn't call the message wrong, unfair or hurtful. The objection is about belonging, like a seat that has been given to someone new. "Anymore" admits that the place was once theirs, and that admission hurts more because it is so quiet. The new person is only "someone else", anonymous and almost politely vague. The poem has no anger and no accusation. It accepts the situation, and that acceptance is where the sadness comes from.
The form acts out the same restraint. There is no punctuation and no capital letter, not even for "i". That lowercase pronoun appears only inside quotation marks, as something almost said. The poem's first words, "really wanted to type", leave out the subject altogether, so the speaker is missing from the grammar at the moment of confession. The register is that of a text message, so the poem sounds overheard rather than composed. The missing apostrophe in "its", while "you're" keeps one, may be haste or accident. Either way, the unpolished surface suits a poem about words typed and not sent. Three asterisks stand where a title would be, which leaves the first line to do all the introducing.
There is no rhyme and no regular metre. The stresses fall as they would in speech, with a soft run through "really wanted to type" and then a clustering of weight at the close: "someone else now". The last word matters most. "Now" fixes the situation in the present, as if the speaker had just checked it and found it unchanged. Sound helps too. "Miss", "place", "missing", "someone" and "else" are full of s-sounds, which give the lines a hushed, held-back quality, almost a whisper. Figurative imagery is almost absent. The one physical picture is the act of typing, and the reader supplies the rest: a thumb hovering over a screen, and words typed and then deleted.
What makes the poem worth reading is its economy and its small paradox. The speaker decides not to send "i miss you", and yet the poem says it anyway. The words are quoted, set down and handed to us, even though the person they were meant for will never see them. Restraint and confession happen in the same breath. The poem also gives lyric poetry a modern occasion, the unsent message, which most readers will recognise at once. It needs no elaborate metaphor, because the stakes are already clear: a feeling that has lost its address, and a speaker who is honest enough to say so and quiet enough not to ask for anything.