Poetry by Rowan Evans

I didn’t arrive with fireworks.
No trumpet of fate announced my coming.
I stepped into your life
like rain slipping through the cracks of an old roof—
gentle, persistent, quiet.

You didn’t see me at first,
your eyes were too full of smoke
from the fires they set in your soul.
But I saw you—
the way moonlight sees a battlefield after war,
not for the blood,
but for the wildflowers growing through the bones.

They loved you like a tempest,
tore through your softness
and called it passion.
They mistook your silence for surrender
and your loyalty for something to conquer.
But I am not a storm—
I am the stillness that follows.
I am the breath you forgot to take.

You don’t need to open the door all at once.
Leave it ajar—
I’ll wait on the porch of your trust
until your ribs remember how to unlock.

They got to your heart first—
left it threadbare and trembling.
But I’ll be the one who sits beside it
without asking it to perform.
You don’t need to shine for me—
I will love you in shadow.

Let them be the architects of your ache.
I will be the gardener of your healing.
I’ll trace the map of your scars
like constellations no one else stayed to name,
and I’ll kiss each one
like a holy place
I am blessed to touch.

I don’t need to be the first to hold your hand,
just the last to let it go.

Let them be the spark,
the flame,
the blaze that blinded.
I’ll be the hearth—
quiet, warm,
steady in the long winter of your doubt.

You are not shattered, my love—
you are stained glass,
lit from within.
And I am the pew beneath your cathedral soul,
content just to be close,
just to kneel and whisper your name
like a sacred hymn.

You are not a burden.
You are a blessing that learned to walk with a limp.
You are the poem they tried to rewrite,
but I’ll read you as you are—
every crossed-out line, every redacted verse,
every unfinished sentence—
and still call you complete.

Because I don’t want to be your first.
Let them hold that hollow crown.
I want to be your last—
the one who stays
when the curtain falls and the world forgets,
the one who wraps their arms around the quiet ache
and says, I see you.
You don’t have to run anymore.

And when the night softens into dawn,
I will be the gentle hand that brushes your hair from your face—
warm fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek,
the subtle scent of rain and jasmine lingering on your skin,
the quiet breath that hums your favorite song—
a lullaby that holds you safe.

I will be the promise
in the slow unfolding of morning light,
the softness of a whispered name
lingering between us like a secret.

Let them fade like shadows on forgotten walls.
I will be the light in your slow sunrise—
steadfast, unwavering,
the last embrace
you reach for
when the world grows still.