More of a (self-) love poem

I could write you a love poem

But would it suffice?

It could still all be a farce,

Couldn't it?

I could compare 

Your existence

To what, 

Blooming clover fields

Would mean to clear blues,

Spread across the sky,

Like a dandelion's seeds.

That's how you exist

In my world,

But is it love?

May not be.

You could be my therapist,

The one, I could get back to

After a bad day.

And tell the lengthy anecdotes to,

About how the world sucks.

You could mean to me,

What a teddy bear means

To a little girl,

Her favorite companion,

But is it love?

I am convinced, 

It's not.

You are like the first sip of 

A cup of coffee

In a cafe, that's a stranger,

Which reminds me

Of the one my mother made for me;

You are familiar,

In a xenolith town.

But is it love?

Maybe not.

But what I'm sure of is,

It's my self love,

In human form.

To you, I'm everything 

I wish I were to me.

And since that's not always easy,

Caring for you is my rescue.

There are days I question,

If I love myself enough,

I look at you and 

smile absentmindedly;

And you smile at me,

When you notice me smiling

At you.

And in that moment,

I know,

It's my self love,

Looking back at me.

For if not,

I'd have let you go,

Without a moment of thought.

But here you are,

Because I'd like to be loved 

And cared for.

And all the care I render 

to you,

For me,

In that moment,

Smiles back as you do.

That through your eyes,

My love for me,

Looks back at me.