Most poems about loss tell us what happened. This one stops at the edge of the event. "where it would've happened" is its first line, and it never says what "it" was. A confession, a goodbye, a kiss that never came? The conditional "would've" leaves room for all of these, and the poem refuses to choose. What it gives us instead is a person on a park bench and the feeling of a place that has lost its other half. The central idea, I think, is that absence is not empty. It has a shape, and the shape is the place where someone used to be.
The first image is the strangest and the most revealing: "the winds breeze by like honking cars at congestion." Wind is usually a gentle, poetic thing in a park poem, but here it is traffic, impatient and noisy and in a hurry. The pun on "breeze by" helps, since it means both "blow past" and "pass casually," and the casualness is what hurts. The world moves through the scene without noticing the person sitting still. The comparison also drags the city into the park, so even this refuge feels crowded and loud, which makes the speaker's stillness stand out more.
Then the poem slows down. "sitting on the seasoned wood" has a soft run of s sounds, as if the speaker has lowered their voice. "Seasoned" suits an old bench, because wood is seasoned by weather and time, but it also hints at the seasons themselves, and at the many visits implied later by "always." The next line, "eyes sparkling as the tides lower," borrows its imagery from the sea. There is no ocean in a park, so the tide must be inner. A reasonable reading is that the sparkle is tears and the lowering tide is emotion ebbing, or perhaps the day ending. The poem lets the reader decide. The fifth line, "the touch to the skin reminisce the voice that accompanies," crosses the senses: something touches the skin, perhaps wind or wood, and the speaker hears a voice. The grammar is loose here ("reminisce" where we might expect "reminisces"), and that looseness suits the moment, where memory arrives faster than careful phrasing.
The form is quiet. It is free verse, with no capital letters and almost no punctuation, so the poem seems to be spoken or thought rather than composed for display. The lines vary in length, with the long traffic line giving way to short, still ones. Rhyme is almost absent until the end, and then it arrives in the closing couplet: "alone in the place that was once us two, / alone at the place we always go to." "Two" and "to" sound identical, so the poem finally clicks shut on a sound-match just as it names the missing pairing. The repeated "alone" works like a door closing twice. The grammar of time adds a further twist. "Was once" belongs to the past, but "always go to" is present tense. The couple is over, yet the habit continues. The speaker keeps returning to a place that only works as a place of loneliness now, and that small clash of tenses is the poem's most honest moment.
Above the poem sits the word "serendipityth," which may be a title or a name. Either way, it adds an irony. Serendipity means a happy accident, while the poem is about a place chosen again and again, and about meaning that has drained away. The word hangs over the scene like a memory of how such things might once have begun.
The poem's significance lies in how much it leaves out. It has no named lover, no explanation, and no dramatic ending, only a bench, a draught of wind, and a voice that has outlasted the person it belonged to. Its roughness, from the odd grammar to the unexpected traffic simile, makes it feel unpolished in a way that suits grief. For a student reader, it is a good example of how a poem can suggest a whole story through one location and a handful of carefully chosen details, and trust the reader to supply the rest.