Read quickly, the poem is a single confession: if love is something you have to be skilled at, like painting or music, then the speaker has already given up. The title, "Art," sets up the comparison, and the one line of verse knocks it down almost at once.
The sentence is built as an "if... then" argument, and that makes it sound oddly logical, even resigned. The speaker doesn't say love is hard or that they have been hurt. They say they lack the talent, as if love were a gift some people are born with and others simply are not. That suggests a feeling of inadequacy, perhaps clumsiness or self-doubt, rather than anger or heartbreak.
The mood is quiet, wry, and a little sad. There is a hint of humor in the neat phrasing, but it reads as a shrug covering real insecurity. The poem leaves us wondering whether the speaker is right, or whether love might not be an art at all.