Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece came from the feeling of recognizing something before you fully understand it.

Not memory exactly.
Not déjà vu.
Something softer and stranger than that.

I’ve always been fascinated by those moments where emotion arrives before explanation—when a place, a person, or a feeling seems deeply familiar even though you know you’ve never truly experienced it before. Like your mind is brushing against a future version of your life before you’ve physically reached it.

That became the emotional center of this poem.

The shifting between bedroom and street, dream and waking, reality and unreality, was meant to feel unstable on purpose. I wanted the speaker to exist in that liminal space where certainty dissolves and longing becomes vivid enough to feel almost tangible.

Humidity became important while writing too. It creates this physical heaviness throughout the piece—something atmospheric and emotional at the same time. The world feels thick with anticipation, almost electrically alive, as if reality itself is trying to push through the veil separating possibility from arrival.

And then there’s the ending.

What mattered to me most was that the final realization isn’t framed as destiny in some grand cosmic sense. It’s quieter than that. More human.

Not:
“I remembered her.”

But:
“I’m becoming someone capable of reaching that life.”

That distinction changes everything.

Because the poem ultimately isn’t about escaping reality.

It’s about slowly awakening into a future version of yourself that already exists somewhere just beyond fear, distance, uncertainty, and waiting.

And sometimes the first glimpse of that future arrives like a dream before it arrives like a life.

— Rowan Evans

Just Beyond Waking
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I stood on an unfamiliar street,
feeling unfamiliar heat—
skin sweat‑slick.
I was lost in thought,
stuck in that spot.
The air around me buzzed,
electric with the hum
of life moving past.

I’ve felt this before—
but was it
dream or memory?
I don’t know.
Can’t be sure
anymore.

Vision shifts as I drift,
street fading into bedroom walls.
The bustling street’s noise—
just music in my headphones.
Blink and I’m back again,
don’t know what to think,
don’t know what’s happening.

Back on that unfamiliar street,
I feel the pull creep—
so I begin to move my feet,
one step and then another,
one foot and then the other.

Reality is shifting,
I’m losing grip—
I’m slipping.
Don’t know what’s the dream,
and what’s me
awakening.

I trip and stumble,
almost tumble into the street—
catch myself at the last second,
clutching the wall
as if I might drift away.

Then I hear it.
A sound, an echo—
a voice piercing the silence.
Eyes scan the room
as humidity creeps
across my skin.

I struggle
to pull in a breath,
and again
the sounds of the city
surround me.
Again I’m back
on that same street—

but I’m no longer alone.

As my eyes focus,
slowly she comes into view.
A gentle smile
spreads across her lips—
a soft touch on my arm,
a line traced by her fingertips.

The city hums around us,
alive, waiting.
And something in her silence
steadies the world—
not familiar,
but right.
Not remembered,
but meant.

And in that moment
I understand—
this isn’t memory,
isn’t dream,
but the first soft glimpse
of a life
I’m still walking toward,
waiting for me
just beyond waking.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

[It’s You I Choose]
A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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