Six short lines, no capital letters, not one comma or full stop: the poem reads as if it were typed in a single breath and sent before the writer could change their mind. Nothing reliable is known here about who wrote it or when. The only clues are a name that looks like a username and a German line, «du verschwendest deine zeit 45» ("you are wasting your time"), followed by a number. The number hints at a series, and the German line might be a title or a voice the poem answers, but those are guesses. The text itself is enough to work with.
Its subject is the pain of someone who keeps leaving. "Everytime you leave again" tells us this has happened before and will probably happen again. The person comes back, and each return only sets up the next departure. What remains each time is not a memory or a longing but a "hole", and the poem's central claim is that nothing can close it. The person is "not replaceable", so the speaker concludes, flatly, "i just have to live in emptiness."
The strongest move comes in the first two lines. "You leave again" and "you leave a hole" use the same verb in two senses: to depart, and to leave something behind. Departure and damage become one action, as if the person's exit were the act that makes the hole. The last line quietly echoes this. "Leave" at the start and "live" at the end are nearly the same word, and one has forced the other into a different shape. Because you leave, I live in this way.
The imagery stays simple. A hole is a physical thing you could fall into or try to fill, and the poem plays on that. "Refillable with anything" imagines a whole list of possible substitutes (distractions, other people, time) and dismisses them in one phrase. In the last line, the concrete "hole" turns into the abstract "emptiness", and the speaker moves from having a hole to living in one. The preposition does a lot of work here. The emptiness has become a place, a home the speaker has not chosen.
The rhythm supports this. The lines are uneven. The second is the shortest, almost a gap on the page, while the fourth is the longest, stretched across "refillable with anything" as though the sentence were trying to cover the hole with words. Without rhyme, nothing ties the lines together neatly, which suits the content: no closure, no click at the end. There is a near-rhyme inside the sentence, though. "Refillable" and "replaceable" share the same ending and a similar shape, and they sit in adjacent lines, one about the hole and one about the person. They sound like a matched pair, which quietly suggests the same thing: the hole has the exact shape of this one person, and nothing else fits.
The grammar and pronouns add to the effect. The line "that is so so big / that it isnt refillable" delays its result across a line break, so the reader waits for the size of the hole to be measured and gets only "anything". The doubled "so so" is childlike and spoken, an intensifier used when ordinary words feel too small. The missing apostrophes in "isnt" and "youre" make the voice sound hurried and unpolished. The word "you" dominates the first five lines, and "i" appears only in the last. The speaker enters their own poem at the end, once everything else has been described, and even then as someone who "just has to" live there. "Just" and "have to" take away any sense of choice.
What makes this poem worth reading is how little it does. It offers no consoling "but", no hope that the person will stay, and no decorative metaphor. Its logic runs in a straight line (you leave, there's a hole, nothing fits, so I live in it), and that bare logic is what makes the feeling believable. A poem this plain can seem too slight, but its plainness is the point. It shows how a few ordinary words, set carefully, can describe a feeling many people recognise and rarely manage to say.