Three lines are enough for X-Y-L-O-S to pack a whole emotional situation into a single sentence: someone has been left, and someone is still waiting. The poem never says who "you" is, why they left, or whether they are coming back. It gives us only the speaker's position, "where you left me," and a wish that the speaker knows is out of reach.
The central idea sits in the grammar. "If only I could wait FOREVER" is a wish, and a wish like this admits it cannot come true. The speaker is saying, in effect, that they cannot wait forever. The rest of the sentence then describes the world in which they could: "I wouldn't clear my existence / And wait for you where you left me." In that imagined world, the speaker stays put and stays alive in the fullest sense. By implication, in the real world they do not. The poem leaves this unsaid, which makes it hit harder.
The key phrase is "clear my existence," and it is deliberately strange. "Clear" is a word we use for tables, debts, browser histories and names. It sounds administrative, almost cold, which makes the idea behind it more unsettling. The phrase could mean wiping away one's traces, abandoning the place of waiting, or giving up a self that exists only in relation to the absent person. Judging by the text alone, it could also suggest something darker, a wish to disappear. The poem doesn't settle this, and the ambiguity is part of its power. The reader has to decide how heavy the word is.
Another detail is the sentence's slightly tangled logic. "I wouldn't clear my existence / And wait for you" can be read two ways. Either the speaker would refuse to do both things, or they would refuse to clear themselves and instead wait. The second reading is more natural, but the first lingers, because it suggests that waiting and erasing oneself are tangled up together. To wait is already to put your own life on hold, to clear a little of yourself away. The wish to "wait forever" may therefore be less about devotion than about the fear of what happens when the waiting stops.
The form supports this. The lines are close in length, each running to roughly eight syllables, so the rhythm is steady and quiet, like a held breath. There is no rhyme, which suits a poem about something unresolved. The one sound pattern is repetition: "wait" appears in the first line and again in the last, framing the poem the way waiting frames the speaker's days. "You left" turns into "left me" within a single line, so the speaker's abandonment is built into the syntax. There is also no full stop after "me." The sentence trails off, as if the waiting hasn't ended and the poem refuses to say that it has.
Then there is the capitalised "FOREVER," the only word in the poem set apart this way. It reads like a raised voice, but it also stretches the idea of time to its limit. The capitals make the word look enormous beside the small, plain words around it, and that contrast shows how impossible the wish is. Even the author's name, spelled out letter by letter with hyphens, forces a slow, halting reading. That may be coincidence, but it fits the poem's mood.
The title, «realisations #3», suggests that this is one piece in a numbered series. I can't say what the others contain, but the word "realisations" colours this one. The speaker seems to be arriving at an understanding, and it is a painful one: the capacity to wait is finite, and love or loyalty cannot always outlast time.
The poem matters because it is so compressed and so honest about a limit. Many poems about absence promise endless fidelity. This one admits that endlessness is exactly what the speaker doesn't have, and that the wish for it is the closest they can come. In three lines it leaves a reader thinking about what it costs to wait for someone, and what remains of a person once the waiting is over.