I admire everything about you—
not in the way one admires a passing flower,
but as the earth admires the sun:
distant, constant, and necessary for every bloom within me.

I do not understand why God shaped us in bodies of clay,
when what truly unravels my soul
is not the shape of your hands
but the silence between your words,
where your kindness breathes and your truth resides.

I did not fall for what eyes can measure—
not for your face, your frame,
but for the invisible glow of your character,
for the way your heart moves like soft wind over still water,
disturbing something deep within me I thought had long gone quiet.

Your presence is a prayer I never learned to say,
but feel answered every time you smile—
a smile that does not just light a face,
but melts the frost in places I didn’t know were cold.

And your voice—
it doesn’t speak so much as it hums through the chambers of my being,
like the echo of rain in a sacred cave,
making me wonder:
are you truly made of the same dust as I,
or are you some hidden fragment of heaven
that God forgot to name when He whispered stars into the sky?

And still I ask, in awe and trembling:
Is it you that I love—
or is it the glimpse of God I see through you,
the divine fingerprint etched in the way
you make me believe again
in the beauty of simply being?