Two short stanzas, almost identical, set the rhythm of this poem: days pass, nights go by, and the speaker is still waiting. The repetition makes time feel stuck. Nothing changes except the calendar, and the plain wording suggests a person worn down by the sameness of it.
Then the poem shifts. The last three lines are questions, and each one asks for more than the one before. First the speaker wants to be asked something, then to be told something, and finally to be loved. The poem never says what the asking or telling would be about, so we're left to imagine it. The speaker seems to be hoping the other person will make the first move.
The mood is quiet, patient, and a little aching. There's no anger here, just longing and uncertainty. Ending on "when will you love me?" leaves the speaker exposed, with no answer in sight.