The Way I Admire Her Poem by Barbara Nivol

The passion for her—
it's not something I wear like a coat
I can take off when it gets too warm.
It lives under my skin,
in the space between each breath,
in the seconds I steal
just to picture her face.

It's not just love.
It's the love of being in love with her.
Of waking up
and knowing the world holds
someone like you in it.
And somehow,
so do I.

I've admired many things:
sunsets that silence a crowd,
paintings that breathe emotion,
songs that feel like confessions.
But I like admiring her much better—
because she's not still,
not staged,
not playing for applause.
She just is.

And that's enough
to make me believe in art again,
in softness again,
in the kind of love
that doesn't beg to be returned,
but still waits quietly
in case it ever is.