Someone is grieving a relationship that still exists, only out of reach. The speaker misses a person in small, specific pieces: the smile, the laugh, the eyes, and above all the voice. The list is short and plain, almost like the speaker is gathering what's left and holding each piece up one at a time.
The voice matters most because it once comforted them. It stopped their tears and felt like a hug, so the speaker's pain is tied to losing the very thing that used to soothe them. The turn comes with "but now," when that same person tells them to leave them alone. The comfort has become a rejection, and nothing is left but memory.
The mood is raw and sad, and the lack of capital letters and fancy language makes it feel like a private, honest confession. The title, "Love you," sits against the ending and makes the hurt sharper, since the love is still there and the person isn't.