The speaker is calling time on a relationship, but the poem keeps circling back to one bitter question: what's the point? It asks this about speaking, about comfort, about love itself. Each time, the answer seems to be none. Words that aren't true are useless, comfort can't satisfy real desire, and love that runs only one way is like a street with traffic going in a single direction.
The turning point comes near the end, when the speaker flatly states, "It's over," and says their love is gone. Then the final line undercuts everything. If the two "never even began," what exactly is there to end? That twist leaves the mood tired, hollow and quietly painful rather than angry. The speaker seems less furious than worn out, grieving something that was never fully real. The repeated questions give the poem a weary, going-nowhere rhythm that matches the feeling of an unreturned love.