Anyone who has waited for someone to come back will recognise the mood of this seven-line poem: half belief, half embarrassment, and a question that arrives too late to be ignored. The speaker is clinging to the idea that a lost love is still theirs. Everything is held together by a single fragile word, "somehow," and the last line lets the doubt in.
The first line is the longest and the most guarded. "Somehow, a part of me still believes" doesn't claim certainty. It admits that the belief is irrational ("somehow"), that it belongs to only one fraction of the speaker ("a part of me"), and that time has already passed ("still"). The speaker sounds like someone who knows the other parts of themselves would disagree. Then comes the claim itself, set on its own short line: "you are my soulmate." The present tense matters. Nothing has ended in this sentence, and the word "soulmate," a bit of a cliché, works here because it is the kind of ready-made comfort a hurting person reaches for. It turns a relationship into destiny, and destiny doesn't need to be earned or repaired.
The next lines go further in rewriting the story. "That you're just lost" is the poem's key move. A person who has left chose to go, but a person who is lost has simply taken a wrong turn. The small word "just" shrinks the problem down, and the speaker's hurt becomes a matter of directions. The imagery that follows is slight but consistent: "find your way / back to me." There is no map, landscape or weather, only a wanderer and a fixed point. The speaker is that fixed point, a house with the light left on, and all the action belongs to the other person. The speaker's role is to stay put, which may be the poem's quietest admission.
The line breaks do a lot of the work. After the long opening line, the lines contract, and "back to me" shrinks to three syllables, as close to a whisper as the poem gets. Then "eventually" gets a line to itself. It is a slow, five-syllable word that stretches as you say it, and its placement turns the promise into a delay. The word that is supposed to reassure is the one that wears the reader out. There is no rhyme anywhere. The poem is free verse, and its steadiest sound is a pairing of ideas rather than of endings: "lost" against "find," and "me" repeated in "a part of me" and "back to me," as if the speaker keeps circling their own position.
Then the final line breaks the spell: "~but how long with that take?" The tilde is the most surprising mark in the poem. It looks like a handwritten aside, a note scribbled beside the neat consolation of the first six lines. Lowercase "but" refuses to make a grand turn, and the line sounds like a thought escaping before it can be edited. The word "with" is presumably a slip for "will," and that slip is worth noticing. Whether it was deliberate or not, it makes the line feel unpolished, closer to a confession than a performance. The question mark also ends the poem on something unanswered. Six lines of hope are followed by one line asking what hope costs.
That is why the poem matters. It is less about love than about the time that follows love, the stretch in which a comforting story and an honest question share the same head. It doesn't pretend the speaker is wise, and it doesn't punish them for hoping. The title, "Untitled 067," suggests one piece in a longer run of untitled pieces, which fits the feeling of a private note rather than a finished statement, though the poem itself tells us nothing more. The byline, with its vowels stripped out, might be read as another sign of absence, though that is only a guess.
For students, the poem is a good example of how little a text needs. There are no elaborate metaphors, only a handful of plain words under pressure, and the lines carry the emotion in how they are broken, stretched and finally interrupted.