Before the poem begins, there is a sound: "mhmmm." It is less a word than a hum, the noise we make when we are stalling, half-agreeing with ourselves, or drifting into thought. Beneath it, set apart in guillemets, comes the question that drives everything else: «Will it stop?» The quotation marks make it feel like something the speaker has asked so often that it now stands outside them, a refrain rather than a fresh thought. Nothing is known here about who wrote the poem or when, so it has to be read as what it is on the page: a short, unguarded piece about being unable to stop thinking of someone.
The opening grammar stumbles in a way that suits the subject: "when can it come a day / where i stop thinking about you / fully." The sentence is slightly off-balance, as if typed quickly and never polished. The missing punctuation and capitals (even the "i" stays small) strip away any sense of performance. The word "fully" gets a line to itself and works in two directions. It is what the speaker wants, total relief. But left alone on the line, it also hints at how complete the preoccupation is right now. Then comes the image of "flooding." Thoughts of "you" arrive like water, all at once and beyond control. Later the sadness will "overwhelm" the speaker, and the two verbs belong to the same family. Both describe something that happens to a person rather than something a person does.
The most inventive moment is the gap in the middle. "how is it you're so far but / so close to me in a second of": the line breaks after "but," so "far" and "so close" sit on separate lines, and then the sentence stops at "of." A blank space follows before "thinking about you" picks it up. That pause is the second itself, the instant in which a distant person becomes present. The detail that matters is that thinking closes the distance. The closeness is only mental, which is both the comfort and the trap.
There is no rhyme and no steady beat. This is free verse, with short lines early on and longer ones in the final section that run on without a place to breathe, the way worry loops when nothing interrupts it. Repetition does the job rhyme might have done. "Thinking about you," "the thoughts of you" and "those thoughts" circle back like the obsession they describe. The word "stop" appears four times, from the subtitle through "i stop thinking" and "i stop the thoughts" to "stop this crisis." Stopping is the wish, the question and the proposed solution, yet it never happens inside the poem.
The final section turns the question into a dilemma. "should i carry on to hurt myself / because of the smiles i have when those thoughts linger for too long." The hurt and the pleasure come from the same source, so the speaker cannot cut one without cutting the other. Then "crisis" appears, a large word dropped into a casual, lowercase voice, and it suggests how serious this feels beneath the offhand tone. The alternative is no relief either: sadness for "days / to come." The line break stretches those days out, and the poem ends on "eventually leaving me lonely." Healing is not what waits at the end of stopping, only loneliness. The speaker's real fear may not be sadness at all, but losing the one thing that keeps the absent person near.
That honesty about ambivalence is what makes the poem worth reading. It does not pretend the speaker simply wants to be free of someone. It admits that the thing causing pain is also giving something back, and that moving on has a price. Nothing is resolved. The question under the title goes unanswered, and the poem ends on a single adjective rather than a decision. The opening hum now sounds like the noise of the loop itself, a mind turning the same thought over because neither option looks bearable. The language is plain, but the shape of the poem, with its gaps, its repetitions and its refusal of comfort, carries the feeling more convincingly than a tidier ending could.