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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: airport dream

  • Where I Belonged | A Liminal Poem About Consciousness, Dreams & Waking Reality

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came directly from a real experience.

    I had fallen asleep.

    When I “woke up”, and I had closed my eyes for only a moment, and suddenly I wasn’t in my room anymore.

    I was standing in an airport.

    Not imagining one.

    Experiencing one.

    I could hear jet engines humming. I could hear people talking around me. I could hear footsteps crossing polished tile. It was detailed enough that, for a few seconds, I questioned whether I’d actually opened my eyes at all.

    When I finally did, my bedroom was still there.

    The airport wasn’t.

    But it also didn’t feel entirely gone.

    That strange overlap fascinated me.

    It wasn’t a dream in the usual sense, because I knew I was awake.

    It wasn’t reality either, because I knew where I actually was.

    It was something in between.

    I’ve written many poems about dreams, liminal spaces, and the moments where consciousness feels uncertain.

    This felt different.

    There wasn’t fear.

    There wasn’t confusion.

    There was only hesitation.

    A quiet instinct that if I moved too quickly, I might somehow choose one reality over another.

    The final lines stayed almost exactly as they arrived because I realized they didn’t need an explanation.

    Sometimes the most honest thing a poem can do is preserve uncertainty instead of solving it.

    I still don’t know exactly what happened that morning.

    I only know how it felt.

    And sometimes feeling is the only truth poetry needs.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands between a quiet bedroom and a dreamlike airport terminal as the two realities blend together.
    Sometimes waking isn’t returning—it’s deciding which reality you’re standing in.

    Where I Belonged
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I closed my eyes—
    my room around me,
    then the hum
    of jet engines filled the air.
    The muttering of people,
    and footsteps as they
    walked past me.

    It shouldn’t have felt real,
    but it did—

    the cold tile under my feet,
    the distant announcement
    I couldn’t quite make out,
    the sense that everyone
    was going somewhere
    except me.

    I opened my eyes,
    expecting the room
    to steady itself,
    but the air still carried
    the echo of departure.

    It felt like the world
    had changed its mind
    about where I was.
    One moment: carpet, quiet,
    the familiar weight of my own breathing.

    The next: a terminal
    I didn’t remember entering,
    voices rising and falling
    like tides around me.

    I stayed still,
    as if movement would decide
    which reality I belonged to.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Following the Footprints]
    Standing alone on a quiet shoreline, the speaker discovers mysterious footprints leading into the unknown—and realizes they may point not toward another place, but toward the missing parts of themselves.

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [Caller ID: Destiny]
    Sometimes the places we visit in our dreams feel more like home than the places we wake up in. Caller ID: Destiny explores longing, belonging, and the quiet feeling that life is calling you toward somewhere new.

    [A Heart That Echoes in Another Language]
    A poetic journey through music across Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, exploring how sound becomes identity, memory, and emotional geography.

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

  • Separate Timelines | A Poem About Distance, Time Zones, and Unspoken Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always been fascinated by the strange emotional weight of time zones.

    How someone can become such a consistent part of your thoughts that you start measuring your own day against theirs.

    Checking the clock. Wondering if they’re asleep. Wondering what their sky looks like while you’re staring at yours.

    At some point, distance stops feeling geographical and starts feeling temporal.

    That feeling became the foundation for this piece.

    The airport in the dream felt symbolic almost immediately while writing it—a place built entirely around arrivals, departures, waiting, and crossing paths for brief moments before separating again.

    And in the middle of that emptiness, there’s this presence that feels familiar before it’s visible.

    I think that’s what emotional connection can feel like sometimes.

    Not certainty. Not possession. Not even clarity.

    Just recognition.

    This poem also came from the tension between wanting to speak honestly and being afraid of what honesty might change.

    Because vulnerability always carries risk.

    Sometimes the fear isn’t rejection itself— it’s the possibility of losing a connection that already means something to you.

    So the poem lives in that suspended space: between dream and waking, between silence and confession, between leaving and returning.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sits alone inside an empty airport terminal at night while distant runway lights glow outside.
    Some connections feel close even across separate timelines.

    Separate Timelines
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—
    I sat alone in an empty airport.
    Not a soul. Not a sound.
    I was the only one around.

    It was just me
    as far as the eye could see.

    Yet, I heard the hum
    of jet engines still—

    Then there was
    the sound of movement,
    footsteps echoing in the distance.

    Eyes scanning—
    trying to locate the source.

    Slowly—

    I rise.

    Getting to my feet,
    I stumble
    trying to get myself steady.

    The footsteps grow clearer—

    slow, deliberate,
    like someone who already knew
    I’d be here.

    And in the stillness
    of this moment—

    silence folds in on itself,
    waiting for me
    to decide
    whether to run
    or stay.

    The footsteps stop.

    My breath catches,
    not from fear,
    but from the strange familiarity
    of a presence I can’t yet see.

    And my legs feel heavy—

    like they remember something
    my mind doesn’t.

    I can’t see you—
    but I feel your presence.

    It’s like you and I
    live on separate timelines,
    simultaneous
    but different—

    like we can only exist like this.

    Because—
    my day
    is your night,

    and your day
    is mine
    just the same.

    It might seem simple to some,
    might even sound a little dumb—

    to get caught up
    on things like that—

    but I’ve been stuck
    on her time
    since I put widget
    on my phone.

    Listen to me…

    there I go again,
    loose lips
    let truths slip—

    even when they’re
    better left unsaid.

    Not because I didn’t want to say it.

    I did.

    But I don’t know
    if the timing’s right,
    or how you feel—

    but I do know
    you’re worth the risk
    of my heart shattering,
    I just don’t know
    if I’m strong enough
    to handle a connection
    breaking.

    So I keep quiet—

    not because
    I don’t want to speak,
    but because
    I’m scared to.

    So I sink
    back into my seat—
    and I feel your presence fade.

    I don’t know if you left
    or if I’m awake—

    but I promise…

    I promise,
    I’ll be back.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life.

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