A speaker wishes someone would understand how they feel, but admits they can't explain it, because they don't fully know themselves. The poem is short and plain, and it reads like a private thought written down in a quiet moment.
The first two lines repeat "wish," which gives a sense of longing. The speaker wants to be understood and also wants to be the one who can make that happen. Then the poem turns on "but." The speaker notices that they're "indecisive," just like him. The comparison is gentle but a little rueful: the two of them are stuck in the same uncertainty, and neither is moving forward.
The last line is the heart of it. You can't explain something you haven't worked out yourself. The mood is wistful and honest, a bit frustrated, but without drama. The lowercase writing and missing apostrophe in "im" make it feel casual and unpolished, like a real, unguarded confession.