Poetry by Rowan Evans

Complexicity (noun)
/ˌkäm-plek-ˈsi-sə-tē/
The sacred state of being where contradiction and clarity coexist in harmony.
A soul spun from wildfire and silk—soft to the touch,
but capable of burning everything you thought you knew.
It is the art of being both storm and stillness,
of speaking in thunder and whisper in the same breath.
Not built for simplicity, but for those brave enough
to read the poetry written in scars and stardust.
To know complexicity is to unravel a myth still breathing—
to see the divine in her flaws,
the seduction in her honesty,
the power in her refusal to be less than everything at once.
She is not perfection.
She is a masterpiece.

I knelt not because I was told to,
but because my soul had no choice.
The moment she looked at me
like I was more than mortal,
I became hers—
a sermon in skin,
whispering every prayer her body deserved.

She is chaos sculpted into grace,
a hurricane with a lullaby’s voice.
The kind of woman
gods envy and mortals ache for.
I do not love her gently—
I love her in tremors, in firelight,
in the aching between worship and ruin.

She is the altar and the flame,
and I am the match
that begged to be struck.
Her presence is holy disorder,
a gospel written in lipstick smudges
and fingernail crescents left in my back.

Her laugh rewrites the laws of physics.
Her gaze stops time.
And when she speaks—
even silence obeys.

I am not lost in her—
I am found in her tempest.
Each touch, a resurrection.
Each sigh, a hymn.
And I, her willing choir
singing hallelujahs into the heat.

She is not a fantasy.
She is a reckoning.
The kind of beautiful
that cannot be framed or explained,
only surrendered to—
fully,
utterly,
unapologetically.

I would carve my vows into every inch of skin
just to let the world know—
she was here,
she touched me,
and I burned beautifully for it.

She does not ask for worship.
She breathes, and I offer it freely.
My hands ache to memorize her,
to trace every chapter of her soul
as if her body were scripture,
and I—a starving disciple
craving one more taste of divinity.

She kisses like salvation,
ruins like revelation,
and leaves behind the kind of ache
that makes you thank her
for the pain.

With every breath,
I surrender a little more—
not out of weakness,
but because she makes surrender
feel like power reborn.

Her love is not safe.
It is sacred.
It is the knife and the nectar,
and I am eager for both.

If loving her is madness,
then I will never be sane again.
For in her arms, I am undone,
and in that unraveling—
I am finally whole.

She is the reason the stars burn,
and I—
I would drown in her fire
and call it salvation.