Poetry by Rowan Evans

Here we stand, on opposite sides
of a door carved by hesitation,
its hinges rusted with time,
its key lost in the folds of fear.

I press against the wood, ear to the grain,
listening—your breath, steady, soft,
a rhythm I memorize,
a melody I ache to answer.

Fingertips trace the knots and lines,
as if mapping a way through the silence.
I knock—light, uncertain—
a whisper wrapped in longing,
a plea left hanging in the hollow air.

On the other side, you linger too,
fingers ghosting over the handle,
the weight of trust cradled in your palms.
You could open it—
but what if the world rushes in too fast?

A sigh. A shift.
You slide down, back to the wood,
mirroring me in this quiet surrender.
The door stays closed, yet—
somewhere in the hush,
the first splinter forms.