Love: a complex code never fully written,
trying harder to connect more than once.
On the third try at the second night stricken,
it is always back to square one.
Guarding my heart in a box,
never above my arm.
Because once was enough, twice was the flop,
and third time is never the charm.
Love is nothing but a countdown:
one finger for every encounter,
two hands are not enough,
three strikes and we're both out.
Seldom of trust, for emotions so compelled.
Cold feet as a defensive mechanism, for the lies unheard.
First comes me, second myself,
and I, as a third.
