When I look at you I don't think of love.

I think of daffodils.
Fields of them.
Or, not exactly daffodils, but the word "daffodils," in clear black, on the first line of a Wordsworth poem on the thinnest grade of tracing paper Norton uses for their anthologies.
Which is also like the skin of a dead daffodil, if bleached a little in the sun by a pond, thin, pale, almost transparent, with the texture of sanded parchment.
I think not of love, but of the word "love," or not even of the word "love," but of words used in metaphors related to love in sonnets bound in rusty, flaking books that line the shelves of church libraries in one of those big Baptist churches in the 1970s, with the summer outside baking the magnolias and the air conditioning running in the library so you only hear the eventual hum of the water fountain outside the door.
Or, no...
I think of the smell of soap in a Southern Baptist church bathroom on a Wednesday afternoon before choir rehersal, after reading a metaphor for the word "love" in one of those rusty books, when you've put the book back on the shelf and the librarian has closed the door, and you've gone to wash your hands before stepping into the hall by the nursery that smells of cookies and grape juice before going upstairs.