Poetry by Rowan Evans

If she whispers, I melt.
If she commands, I kneel.
It doesn’t take much—
a glance, a breath,
a shift in the weight of her silence—
and I’m undone.

There’s a kind of gravity in her,
like the moon to my tides.
I rise for her, crash for her,
shape myself around the contours
of the world she’s trying to survive.

I’ve listened to her sob,
sat in the silence of her storms,
not to fix, not to rescue—
just to be,
to show her she doesn’t have to carry
it all alone.
And when she told me
all the reasons she’s supposedly “unlovable”—
I didn’t flinch.
I called them green flags
and meant every goddamn word.

She said, anger issues,
and I saw fire—
the kind that keeps you warm
after others have left you in the cold.

She said, possessive,
and I offered myself willingly:
Take me.
Keep me.
Claim me.

She warned me,
her voice rough with memory,
jealous, strict, unpredictable, a bitch sometimes.
And all I could think was—
finally.
Someone who doesn’t play at softness
but bleeds it raw
underneath sharpened edges.
My kind of dangerous.
My kind of queen.

She’s chaos and calm,
rage and lullaby,
sarcasm like sugar melting on my tongue.
I told her she could be selfish,
and I’d still offer up my everything.
Told her I was submissive—
and I meant it with reverence,
not weakness.
Because strength
is knowing who you’d kneel for
and doing it without shame.

She says I’m biased.
And maybe I am.
But if love isn’t bias
in its most honest form,
what the hell is it?

I’ve told her the truth a thousand ways—
in poems, in silence,
in staying when others would’ve fled.
She doubts her worth,
calls her heart a battlefield,
and I keep showing up like a soldier
with no armor,
just arms open wide.

Because if she says I’m hers—
in a whisper or a growl,
with trembling lips or steady hands—
I'd believe her.
I'd belong to her.

And I’m not afraidof what that means.