Most love poems reach for fireworks. Mary62708's "My love" reaches for something quieter and more physical: a pulse. The first line says that every time the speaker's heart beat, it beat "in time with yours," and the line does what it describes, because the repeated "beat it beat" thuds like a heart. The central idea is that real closeness is less a feeling about another person than a shared body, so losing someone means losing a rhythm.
I can't reliably say anything about who wrote this or when, so the text is the only evidence, and it is rich enough. It is free verse, with no rhyme and no regular meter, in two stanzas of five and six lines. The first two lines both open with "Every time," which sets up a pattern of cause and effect. Look at the grammar of the second: the speaker takes a deep breath and "your lungs filled with air." The two people don't merely breathe alike, because the speaker's action produces the other's. That is closer to one body than two.
After those long, flowing lines, the poem shortens into fragments: "Mind and body / Heart and soul." Each line holds two things joined by "and," so the form echoes the subject, two halves sitting in one line. These are familiar pairings, and a tough reader might call them stock phrases. But after the specific physical detail of the opening, they work as a summing-up, as if the speaker steps back from the pulse to name what the pulse stood for.
The second stanza turns on tense. The first stanza lived in the past ("beat," "took," "were"). Now comes the future, "We will always be linked," and then the present, "even though you aren't here." That is the only hint of absence, and it is tucked into a subordinate clause, as though the speaker can barely say it. The poem never explains why the person is gone. Death, separation and an ending are all possible, and the silence lets readers bring their own loss to it.
The next lines are the most exposed: "I miss feeling you / hearing you." The verbs have no qualifying detail, and the line break makes them feel like a caught breath. Notice which senses are named: touch and hearing, the senses through which you would know a heartbeat or a breath. Sight is absent. What is missed is not a face but a presence sensed from the inside. Then "Just knowing that you were mine" shrinks the wish to something small. The word "just" and the past tense of "were" make it sadder than a grand declaration would.
The last line carries the most weight: "The one I made and the one who made me." The line balances on "and," with "made" on either side like a mirror. Between lovers, it could mean two people who shaped each other. But set beside the shared heartbeat and breath of the first stanza, a reader might also think of a mother and child, whose bodies really are shared before birth. In that reading, "the one I made" is literal, and "the one who made me" is the child who made her a mother. That is an inference, since the poem doesn't say so, but the line holds either meaning without strain. Either way, it makes love a mutual act of creation. The speaker has lost a person, and with that person goes part of the self that person helped build.
The poem's significance lies in its restraint and in where it places love. The title is plain and possessive, the language is everyday, and the grief is never named outright. Instead the poem locates love in the body, in pulse and lungs, and lets the absence show in the grammar. It is short enough to read in a minute, but the shifts in tense and the double meaning of the last line reward a second look. It leaves a question hanging: if two hearts kept one time, what does the remaining heart do now?