Susovan's speaker begins like someone reading out a verdict. "The very thing that distinguishes us" sounds like the opening of a calm argument, yet the "thing" turns out to be a lopsided fact: I would choose you "in every life time," and you wouldn't choose me "even in this one." One side of the comparison stretches across countless lives, while the other cannot stretch across a single present. The title, "You, over me," fits that imbalance. It can mean you placed above me, but it can also mean you are *over* me, finished with me. The poem never says which, and both readings feel true.
The vocabulary of choice runs through the first two stanzas. "Choose" appears twice, and then "i chose to give you my flesh and bones." The speaker insists that this love was a decision, something offered freely and completely. "Flesh and bones" is an idiom for total surrender, and the poem does not say whether it is literal or figurative. Either way, it buys nothing. The most striking line follows: "I cannot love you into loving me." The phrase "love you into" treats love as a tool, something that ought to work on another person, and the line admits the tool is useless. It is the poem's central idea in eight words: devotion, however complete, gives you no claim on someone else's heart.
The third stanza turns this into liquid imagery. "There you are.... overflowing with my love, / And here i am, pleading for a droplet of yours." The detail is odd and painful. The beloved is full, but with the speaker's love, which has spilled over and gone unwanted, while the speaker stands empty-handed. "There you are" and "here i am" set the two figures at a distance, like people on opposite banks. Then comes "Or whatever i could salvage," a word that belongs to shipwrecks. The relationship becomes wreckage, and the speaker is reduced to picking through it, lowering the request from a droplet to scraps.
The fourth stanza shifts from lament to something like a lesson: "to grieve someone, hurts a lot less.. / Than forcing someone to be a part you." The last line seems to be missing the word "of," and the stumble suits the strain in the voice. A full stop falls mid-sentence ("When you realise. That to grieve..."), breaking the thought into two blows. The "you" here is slippery. It may be the beloved, imagined someday understanding, or the speaker lecturing themselves. Either way, the stanza sounds like a hard-won rule the speaker accepts in the head and cannot yet obey in the heart.
That conflict explodes in the final stanza. "And i know, i must not beg for love... / But for just once," and the line breaks off, as if the speaker is gathering nerve. What comes next is smaller than love and somehow sharper: "I wanted someone, to be afraid of loosing me." Notice that "you" has become "someone." The beloved has dropped out of the grammar, and the longing now reaches for anyone at all. The tense has slipped into the past too, so the wish already sounds like something put away. The spelling "loosing" is probably a slip for "losing," but a reader can enjoy the accident, since to "loose" something is to let it go, which is the very tension the poem has been circling.
Formally, the poem is free verse with no rhyme and no steady metre. It mostly falls into three-line stanzas, with a single two-line stanza placed at its hardest admission. The rhythm is that of speech, or of a message typed late at night, with ellipses that trail off and commas that fall where a breath would. The lowercase "i" alternates with the capital "I," and whether or not it is deliberate, a shrunken "i" suits a speaker who feels reduced.
What makes the poem worth reading is its honesty about contradiction. The speaker knows begging is wrong, knows forcing love is wrong, and wants something anyway. The wish to be feared for, to matter enough that someone dreads your absence, is a quiet, almost embarrassing form of longing, and the poem lets it stand without dressing it up.