Poetry by Rowan Evans

It’s strange, the way a spark ignites—
from the simplest touch, the quietest word.
You unraveled something inside me,
turned my gaze inward, lifted my eyes skyward.
Now, I crave the heights,
I ache to stretch beyond gravity’s hold,
to dance in the rare air of possibility,
to exist—truly exist—within this fleeting moment.

Before you, the future was a myth,
a ghost flickering at the edge of thought.
Now, I believe—
in love, in trust, in the weight of your name
settling into the marrow of my bones.
I would gather your sorrows like fallen petals,
turn them to ink and rewrite your fears
into something softer, something sacred.

It’s madness, how the smallest tremors
reshape the universe.
You make me want to carve constellations
with your name—
etch it into the throat of comets,
let it glimmer across Mercury’s scars,
Venus’s tides, the war-torn face of Mars.

And yet, even the heavens are pale beside you.
The sun flickers, the stars bow low—
gods fall silent in your presence.
You are carved from twilight and fire,
imperfections woven into a masterpiece.
And still, I would choose you—again, again, and always.