A speaker catches sight of the woman he used to love, now at a gathering with another man's hand in hers. He notices everything: her hazel eyes, her black hair on her shoulders, the way she traces patterns on her dress, the flower in her hair. The dress is one he once gave her, which makes the moment sting more. His heart skips, but what follows is hurt, not joy.
He admits he has been staring again and makes himself look away. To him she has become "old pictures and sad memories," someone who moved on too easily and no longer needs him. He leaves the "claustrophobic" room because he can't bear it any longer.
The mood is wistful and bruised, mixing longing with bitterness. The last lines are the most telling. He says she can never truly be the other man's, yet admits she was never meant to be his either. It reads as a painful way of accepting that the loss is final.