Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note
This poem is a quiet monument—an offering to the kind of love that doesn’t demand, only endures. A love that builds sacred space and stays, even in silence. It’s not a request, it’s a vow.

For the ones who wait—not passively, but with purpose. For those who love like ivy loves ruin.

I do not know how to unlove.
They say to set the bird free, and if it returns—
it was always yours.
But I was born a chapel without doors,
every stained-glass pane
etched with your silhouette.
Let the bird go?
I only ever built sanctuaries.

You are the altar I return to in sleep,
the ghost that hums in my marrow.
Even if you never kneel,
I’ll keep lighting candles
until wax floods the nave.

I do not need your love
to make mine true.
It stands,
a cathedral of waiting,
each stone carved with “still,”
each spire a vow:
I will always stay.

Let the years wear through my skin
like wind through lace;
let the world call me mad,
clinging to shadows and half-formed hopes—
I will still wear your name
like a holy relic
beneath my ribs.

Friend or flame,
ghost or god—
it matters not.
You are the shape of joy
I bend my soul to fit.
And I will love you
like ivy loves ruin,
growing into every fracture
until even the cracks bloom.