And I love myself, respect and care.
"Don't search for love," I know, it's rare.

To look for unadulterated adoration despite the presence of lust.
To crave the loyalty from a species that takes pride in crushing trust.

Yet I'm patient, I've always been.
A glimpse for everyone, never truly seen.

And I'll wait, but not for an eternity.
For I am a mortal, a destructible entity.

"Don't desire such a connection," I know—
Yet I've a penchant for love, more than I show.

For all the sense I hold in my mind,
I'll keep loving myself until my soulmate I find.

But,
How to hug myself, when it gets too cold?
How to say no to the hand which needs to be intertwined, yearning for a hold?

Will my fingers keep running through my hair after I fall asleep?
How much can I comfort myself whenever I weep?

Will my hand still feed me when I refuse to eat?
When I'm isolating in darkness, will it be myself whom I meet?

Will I care for myself when I'm in pain?
Can I hold myself back when I'm tempted to drench in rain?

Will I take myself for a walk when it's been a while?
Can I grab my own arm when I'm tired from travelling a mile?

How do I kiss my forehead and say everything will be fine?
Can I tease myself, make myself smile in distress' first sign?

Will I reassure myself that some things aren't failures, they're mishaps?
How can I offer comfort when I'm myself afraid of thunderclaps?

How many times will I tell myself, for efforts that I'm proud?
For how long can I be my own peace when the world gets too loud?

Can I dance with myself, with only my silhouette?
How long can I sing both parts of a duet?

I can write for love, for all I can give.
The bond I crave, how from myself can I receive?

–Aditi Hayaran (Larkspur)