I love you means what, exactly?

When it comes to what, eventually, it must come to,
don't forget to say to yourself Has it come to this again
already? Look a little lost, maybe,
                                                        but unsurprised.
Sometimes it feels like being a carousel horse, but
with all the paint gone strange-like, all the wood gone
driftwood, all the horses I've corralled inside me set free,
confused now, because now what? The snow fell like
hope when it's been forsaken, just before the wind shifts--
then the wind shifts, the snow flies upward... I love you
means what, exactly? In the end, desire may turn out
to be no different from any other song--
                                                                sing, and be at
last released from it. Not so long ago as I'd like to think,
I used to get drunk in parking lots with strangers; we'd park
we'd drink, and--and didn't think what to call it, the rest
that came after, what is a thing like that worth calling: he
took me into his arms? he held me? I know longing's
a lot like despair: both can equal everything you've ever
hoped for, if that's how you want it--sure, I get that. What's 
wrong with me, I used to ask, but usually too late, and not
meaning it anyway. He touches me, or I touch him, or don't.

[Carl Phillips {1959- }, 'So the Mind like a Gate Swings Open' from Silverchest]