Most poems about love ending are about falling out of it. Here the speaker refuses that story in the first line and repeats the refusal: "I didn't fall out of love with you. / I never fell out of love with you." The second line is almost the first again, with one word changed. That correction sounds like someone who has had this argument with others, or with themselves, many times. The poem's central idea is that a relationship can end even though the love doesn't. The speaker still loves, but the person who was loved has gone.
The structure follows this argument. The first half is a catalogue of what was loved, and almost every line begins with "Your": passions, dreams, mistakes, flaws, that smile, those dark brown eyes. The list is generous, since the speaker loved the "mistakes" and "flaws" too, and so the later change can't be blamed on disappointment. "Aspects" is a slightly odd, clinical word to find among passions and dreams. It suggests a speaker trying to be complete, listing every facet of a person who can't be summed up. The pivot comes with a blunt "But", and then the same details return in negative form. The "dark brown eyes" become eyes that "aren't as deep a brown." The smile that "would beam across your face" becomes a smile that "is no longer there." Memory and present are laid side by side, and the loss shows in the gap between them.
One small pronoun shift deserves attention. The poem speaks to "you" until the turn, then says "You are not him anymore." The beloved becomes "him", a third person the speaker talks about instead of to. Grammar has already accepted what the speaker is still struggling to say, that the man addressed in the first lines and the man standing there now are two people. The poem never says why the change happened, and that silence helps it. Readers can imagine a breakup, a long illness, or the slow drift of someone growing into a stranger. The poem needs none of these, only the experience of recognising a face and not recognising the person behind it.
Rhythm supports the feeling. There is no rhyme and no regular metre, which suits a speaker who is thinking aloud rather than performing. Most lines are short, plain statements, and several end with full stops, so the poem advances in small, firm steps. Then the pattern breaks. "I am unsure" sits alone, a hesitation made visible, and it is followed by the longest line in the poem: "If you still consist of the very same atoms that I love and adore." The sentence runs on as though the speaker is reaching for something and can't find the end of it. The vocabulary here is also unexpected. "Atoms" is the language of science in a poem otherwise made of smiles and eyes. The speaker is asking an old question about identity: if everything that made someone themselves has changed, in what sense is it the same person? "Love and adore" is in the present tense, so the love has not moved even though its object has.
The ending is quiet. "You completely changed" is five words with no decoration, flat and final, almost an accusation without any anger in it. The last line, "I'm just learning to live with that," holds the poem's emotional weight in its smallest words. "Just" plays the effort down, and "learning" admits that it is unfinished. The speaker doesn't announce healing or closure, only the slow work of acceptance. The title, "Out Of Love," is the very phrase the poem argues against, and it reads differently once you finish: the speaker is still in love, only without anyone to be in love with.
This is what gives the poem its force. It uses no elaborate metaphor and no clever form, only repetition, contrast and plain speech. It takes a familiar situation and shows the grief in it that usually goes unnamed, the grief of loving a person who is still around but has stopped being who they were.