Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece feels like a conversation with every version of myself that survived long enough to become this one.

The angry versions. The grieving versions. The lonely versions. The hopeful ones too.

For a long time, I thought pain would eventually turn me cold. That heartbreak, betrayal, abandonment—all of it—would harden me into someone bitter.

But somewhere along the way, I realized something:

I don’t want to become what hurt me.

So this poem became less about suffering, and more about what comes after it. About the kind of love I believe in now—not performative, not transactional, not built on fantasy.

Real love is presence. Attention. Safety. Memory. Patience.

It’s showing up.

And maybe that sounds simple. But I think simple things are often the hardest to do consistently.

— Rowan Evans

The Poet Singing Off
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Hello—
let me introduce myself.

I am Rowan
and no one else.

The fire in my eyes
may have faded—
but I never let the world
turn me jaded.

I’m not bitter,
even though
maybe I should be.

I’ve been through shit—
yeah,
I’ve really been through it.

I’ve seen friends
turn to strangers—

and worse,
turn to haters.

Friends
to enemies.

Lovers
to ghosts.

Raise your glass—
time for a toast.

I thank you
for the lessons,
the pleasure
and the pain.

I turned heartbreak
into ink,
and bled across
the page.

You taught me
what love is not.

It’s not grand gestures
or fancy gifts.

It’s time
and presence—
not just presents.

It’s stormy weather
and sunny days.

It’s seeing the weight
someone carries,
realizing
they’re being buried.

It’s listening
and learning
their stories.

It’s seeing beneath
the surface,
lifting them up—

that’s the purpose.

Remember
the little things.

How she likes her coffee.
The way she wakes up,
randomly.

And be there.

If she wakes
shaken,
and needs somewhere
safe—

be there.

That’s the rule
I try to live by.

I’ve been hurt before,
and I don’t want
to pass that hurt forward.

I want to ease the ache.

I know I can’t
fix the breaks—

but maybe
we can mend
the cracks with gold,
showing people
the beauty
damage makes.

Because cracks
are not flaws—

they’re stories written
in a language
older than spoken tongues.

It’s love—

older than empires,
older than cavemen
lighting the first fires.

Romantic or platonic,
it matters not.

Love is the cure
to the rot.

I scribble on the page
as the lights begin to fade.

Candles flicker.
Flames dance.

And the poet’s pen
finds its cadence.

The poet
signing off.

Goodbye.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]