The one-word title, «Where?», is a question, and the poem never stops asking it. The speaker looks into the dark and can't say why it frightens her. She wonders where her lover's feeling is, since she can't find it. The two questions turn out to be one. She is searching the night for something she cannot see, and she is also searching her relationship for love she has been promised but cannot feel. The central idea is the gap between being told you are loved and actually feeling it.
The poem opens in darkness. "The pitch of the night" is a rich phrase: pitch means the blackest tar as well as the blackest dark, so the night feels thick and sticky, something you could sink into. The speaker "looks into" it, as if hoping to find an answer there, but all she gets is "a fright." The ellipsis after that line lets the sentence trail off, as though she has run out of explanation. Then she tries one: "Is it cause that's where you first ran your fingers along my skin." The casual "cause" and the missing question mark make this sound like a thought spoken aloud, unsure of itself. She is guessing at her own feelings, and that uncertainty is part of the poem's honesty.
The most striking image is the reversal in the second couplet. Touch should make a person feel present and solid, but the memory of it makes her feel "so thin." Her skin, the very place where she was touched, seems to wear away. By the next line she has gone further: "nothing but just some wind." The word choice matters. "Nothing but" and "just" stack up, shrinking her twice in one breath. Wind is also a clever choice, because it can be felt but not seen, and it can't be held. The speaker cannot see her lover's love, and she imagines herself equally invisible, a presence with no body. The poem pairs two things that are both there and both unseeable.
The form follows this loosening. The first four lines are tidy rhyming couplets, night/fright and skin/thin, with lines of roughly ten syllables that move at an easy, almost iambic pace. That order suggests a speaker trying to keep control. Then the third stanza breaks. The lines stretch into long, prose-like sentences, and the rhyme weakens to a faint echo: "thin" slides into "wind" without really matching. The final sentences do rhyme, but only by repeating the same small word: "see it," "feel it." Fancy sound patterns would be out of place here. She is no longer shaping her feelings into verse but simply saying them, and the form seems to run out of tidiness just as she runs out of patience.
Look at the verbs in that last stretch: *said*, *see*, *tell*, *feel*. "You said you love me but I still don't see it" sets spoken words against evidence, and the words lose. Love, for her, has to be perceived, seen or felt, and the "but" shows that being told isn't enough. Then comes the plea, "Please tell me if you know where it is." Love is treated almost like a lost object, something her partner might have misplaced and could point to. The tone is not angry. It is tired and quietly desperate, and the plain request, "I just want to feel it," makes it more moving. That "just" returns from earlier, but now it shrinks her wish instead of herself. All she asks for is something small and basic.
What makes the poem worth reading is that it doesn't dress up its feelings. It names a real and confusing experience: being close to someone and still feeling alone, and not being able to say why. It offers no resolution and no accusation, only a question. The poem is signed Nikky, and the text itself is where its meaning lies: a short piece in which darkness, touch and wind come together to make absence feel physical. The closing line leaves the title question open, and the reader is left sharing her uncertainty about where the love is.