Most breakup poems announce that the speaker has moved on. «over you» is trickier. It circles the idea for seventeen lines and then, in the eighteenth, swaps one word. "I'm not saying I'm over you / I'm saying I'm over this" carries the whole poem. The speaker won't claim that feeling for another person has vanished. What they are finished with is the situation around it: the late nights, the drinking, the cycle of wanting and waiting. The central idea is a distinction between a person and a pattern. You can keep one and walk away from the other.
The opening lines set up the pattern with images of heat and blur. "late nights got me like fire" is a loose, slightly odd simile, and the grammar matters. The nights are the ones doing the grabbing, and the speaker is the thing that gets caught. Then come "drunk eyes", where the eyes themselves seem intoxicated, as if the speaker couldn't see clearly, and "never ending desire". That last phrase is hyperbole, but the past tense around it undercuts it. Desire that was "never ending" is being described from a point after it has, in some sense, ended. Fire and desire is also about the most predictable rhyme in love writing. It reads as a deliberate choice: the speaker starts in the stock language of the feeling they are about to leave.
The middle section turns inward and gets self-conscious. Everyone says the speaker is "wasting my time", and the reply, "let me be, I said, / im thinking of another rhyme", is the moment the poem notices it is a poem. The speaker is hunting for a rhyme while the poem rhymes "time" with "rhyme" two lines later. The pronoun "it" then gets slippery. "You could say I was avoiding it / or that I was trying too hard / I no longer wanna mess with it". Judging by the wording, "it" could be the relationship, or it could be the writing. The poem never settles this, and the blur suggests the two have become tangled together. The speaker lets other people supply the accusations ("you could say"), which hints at self-doubt. The honesty here is disarming: "I no longer wanna mess with it / yet I can't say I'm ready for a new start". It's a both-and position, not a clean exit.
The form follows that movement from tangle to resolution. Line lengths are uneven. Line 3 sprawls, while "let me be, I said," is clipped. The rhymes loosen too: "hard" and "start" are only a near rhyme, and "last" and "past" are held apart by the short, bracing "let's face it". The language is deliberately casual, with the lowercase "im", the "wanna" and almost no punctuation. Then the final four lines lock into a tidy abab pattern: true, miss, you, this. The pivot is built into the rhyme scheme. "Miss" and "this" rhyme, so "those feelings I won't miss" and "I'm over this" are bound together by sound as well as sense. The poem stops hunting for a rhyme and finds a whole run of them.
The boldest claim, "I'm the future and you are the past", deserves some suspicion. Only a few lines earlier the speaker admitted not being ready for a new start. "Let's face it" reads less like a confident announcement than like someone talking themselves into it. The concession that follows, "memories stay, it's true", is where the poem feels most honest. It doesn't ask for forgetting, only for a sorting of what to keep (memories) from what to drop (the feelings).
The poem's significance is modest but real. It doesn't claim grand originality, and its first rhyme is a familiar one. Its strength is emotional precision. Nearly everyone has been stuck in something they couldn't quite call love or quite call a mistake, and the last two lines give a neat way to say so. The pen name, "selfproclaimedwriter", is an apt fit for a poem so absorbed in rhyme and in the act of writing, though that is only a reading of the words on the page. What the poem shows is a speaker who is unsure but still willing to draw a line, and the final turn from "you" to "this" is that line.