The speaker wakes up with an unexpected thought: what if he loved someone again? He compares it to craving wine while hung-over, something faintly absurd and a little self-destructive. The whole poem runs on that comparison, treating love as an intoxicating drink and the aftermath of heartbreak as the hangover. The title's coined word, "Soberiety," suggests the clear-headed sting of giving it up.
A memory surfaces of holding a girl's cold hand, which took him a month to work up to. He jokes about it, saying "That was great," but the shrug of "I dunno, I couldn't remember" hints at how much he's hiding behind casual language. He calls love "a dreadful concoction" and marvels that people keep drinking it. Then comes the slip: "A part of me still hopes." He quickly shuts it down with "Nah," and insists he's been sober for months.
The mood is wry and awkward, but the humor reads like a shield. The final line sounds more like someone convincing himself than stating a fact.