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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: connection

  • Let Me Be Pacific | A Poem About the Ocean, Distance, Love, and Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There are some places that become more than places.

    An ocean can be a physical distance, a horizon, a body of water stretching farther than the eye can follow. But sometimes it becomes something else entirely—a canvas, a metaphor, a meeting place between two people who happen to be standing on opposite sides of the world.

    Let Me Be Pacific began with a simple invitation: let me show you the ocean the way I see it.

    From there, the words wandered where they wanted to go.

    Purple skies. Silver moons. Dark water. Rhymes. Trees. Wordplay.

    And eventually, the Pacific became more than scenery.

    It became the space between here and there—and the reminder that something can cross an enormous distance without ever needing to disappear.

    So, for a moment, come sit beside me on the shoreline.

    Let me paint you a picture.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary poet sits beside the Pacific at twilight beneath a silver moon, watching its reflection shimmer across the waves.
    The Pacific may separate two shores, but poetry has never been particularly good at respecting distance.

    Let Me Be Pacific
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Here let me take my words
    and paint a picture for you—
    the sky in shades of purple and blue,
    lit by the silver moon—
    it lingers over the bay,
    that’s where it stays—
    watching over the tide,
    and I sit on the shoreline—
    watching the ocean’s waves.

    Which ocean? Okay,
    here let me try and spell it out,
    let me be Pacific—
    it’s off the California coast,
    it touches the Philippine Sea,
    sits between Japan and Me.

    Now back to the imagery—
    there was me, next to a happy little tree,
    and the moon was shimmering,
    trembling across dark water—
    back on the shoreline,
    having written more lines,
    not less, but more rhymes.

    So let me stay Pacific—
    specific in the way I see the sea,
    how every wave feels like a message
    sent across the world to me.
    I sit, I rhyme, I watch the tide—
    the ocean’s big, but so’s my mind.

    And if you ask me why I write
    beside this ocean every night—
    it’s because the tide keeps teaching me
    how distance isn’t always far,
    how even the Pacific can carry a heart
    from California to wherever you are.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [My Nightmare]
    A poem about the nightmare of loving someone across distance, seeing the world from different perspectives, and holding onto the hope that the cracks can still be repaired—and that someday two separate shores might become one.

    [Rose & Ruin]
    Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.

    [Across the Page-cific]
    A playful, autobiographical journey through the strange places poetry can take me—from sandwich heartbreak and pasta diss poems to gothic monsters, mythology, ravens, ghosts, and storms across the page. Beneath the absurdity is something deeply personal: the realization that writing gave me a way to rebuild myself, piece by piece.

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

  • My Nightmare | A Poem About Love, Distance, Hope, and Kintsugi

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some nightmares aren’t about monsters.

    Sometimes the nightmare is waking up and realizing that the person you want beside you is standing beneath a completely different sky.

    My Nightmare comes from that place—the uneasy space between memory and hope, between what once felt shared and what now feels impossibly far away. It is a poem about distance, but not only the physical kind. There is distance between perspectives, between hearts, between the lives we imagine and the lives we are actually living.

    Still, even nightmares have endings.

    Sometimes you wake up before they become permanent.

    And sometimes, even while dreaming, you can still see a little gold threaded through the cracks.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two distant figures stand on separate shores beneath different moons, connected across the dark ocean by faint golden and platinum threads.
    Two shores. Two skies. One horizon—and enough gold left to believe they might meet there.

    My Nightmare
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    your moon from my sky
    is missing—
    the sun no longer shines,
    it’s dimming—

    I don’t see the spark anymore—
    don’t see the light in the dark anymore.
    What do I even I write for?
    I lost my purpose—think I did it on purpose,
    it’s like I can’t rhyme anymore,
    no clock, no watch, can’t tell time anymore.

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    my moon is sickly pale,
    but yours seems fine though—
    the sun doesn’t provide light,
    it’s gotten real low—

    in times before, this is when
    I would Kintsugi the heart—
    but there’s not much heart left,
    it’s all gold—soft metal,
    softer soul—stayed warm,
    when the world grew cold.

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    when we used to be,
    two pieces the puzzle
    was missing—
    the sun in the sky was fine,
    but it dimmed in our shine—

    I’ve spent time doing Kintsugi
    on your heart too—it was hard not to,
    gold and platinum weaved through—
    I really did see you, flaws and all—
    and all I saw was a gift from God.

    I still don’t think—
    I was wrong.

    But that was my nightmare…

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we saw was different—
    but I still see the gold threads that connect,
    the platinum hope on the horizon,
    that one day the distance will close—
    and we’ll walk the same shore,
    it won’t be—

    mine and yours.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Dreaming Wrong]
    A familiar dream becomes unsettling when the ocean becomes a pond, the tide disappears, the moon loses its reflection, and nothing feels quite like it belongs. Dreaming Wrong explores the uncanny feeling of finding yourself inside a dream that looks familiar—but feels like someone else’s.

    [Poet’s Curse]
    Poet’s Curse explores the painful side of falling too deeply: giving pieces of yourself away freely, taking accountability for your own heartbreak, and realizing that learning to let go can be harder than learning to love.

    [Beach to Beach]
    A dream becomes a journey between familiar shores and unfamiliar cities in Beach to Beach (How I Get There), a poem about imagined travel, ocean crossings, longing, and the places we hope to someday reach while awake.

    [Where the Metaphors Lead]
    Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.

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

  • The Language Her Soul Speaks | A Poem About Love, Understanding, and Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This is one of the shortest poems I’ve written in a while, but it carries an idea I’ve been circling for years.

    A lot of love poems focus on being understood.

    Wanting someone to see you. Wanting someone to know you. Wanting someone to understand the parts of yourself that feel difficult to explain.

    Those desires are real.

    But as I was writing this piece, I realized my attention was pointed in the opposite direction.

    I wasn’t thinking about being understood.

    I was thinking about understanding.

    About how every person carries an internal world that exists beyond simple translation. A private rhythm. A natural cadence. A way of thinking and feeling that doesn’t always survive the journey into spoken language.

    I think that’s part of why I write so often about language, communication, and connection.

    Not because I believe perfect understanding is possible.

    But because the attempt matters.

    Because choosing to learn someone—to listen carefully, to pay attention, to remain curious about who they are beneath the surface—is one of the most meaningful forms of affection I know.

    The title came first.

    “The Language Her Soul Speaks.”

    Not because I believe souls literally have languages, but because some people seem to move through the world with a rhythm that feels uniquely their own.

    This poem is about wanting to learn that rhythm.

    Not to change it.

    Not to possess it.

    Just to understand it a little better than I did yesterday.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two figures stand beneath a moonlit sky as glowing strands of language and light flow between them, symbolizing understanding, communication, and emotional connection.
    “Not because I need to be understood, but because I want to understand.” — The Language Her Soul Speaks by Rowan Evans

    The Language Her Soul Speaks
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want to whisper secrets
    in the language her soul speaks,
    touch the edges of her mind
    in the natural cadence
    in which she thinks—

    not translated,
    not borrowed,
    not filtered
    through the limits of my tongue.

    Not because I need
    to be understood,
    but because I want to understand.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise]
    Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.

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

  • The Mind’s Winter: A Poem About Emotional Withdrawal, Overthinking, and Missing Someone

    Rowan Evans

    This wasn’t planned as part of the current sequence.
    Some things just need to be written–and shared–when they happen.

    Author’s Note

    There are patterns we don’t always notice until we’ve lived them more than once.

    The same thoughts.
    The same timing.
    The same quiet retreat inward.

    The Mind’s Winter comes from recognizing one of those cycles in real time–watching myself disappear into my own head, knowing it’s happening, and not always knowing how to stop it.

    It’s strange, being both the one experiencing something and the one observing it. To understand the “why,” but still feel pulled into it anyway.

    This piece isn’t about solving that pattern.

    It’s about naming it.

    About acknowledging the way overwhelm can turn inward, how distance can grow even when you don’t want it to, and how sometimes the things that matter most are the very things that scare us into retreat.

    And maybe, in recognizing the cycle…

    there’s a chance to break it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands in a quiet winter landscape, surrounded by bare trees and falling snow, symbolizing emotional withdrawal and introspection.
    Sometimes the cold isn’t outside—it’s the space we retreat into when everything becomes too much.

    The Mind’s Winter
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    February 8th, 2026—
    I got sick again.
    It happens every year
    like clockwork.
    It starts with the headache,
    caused by being overwhelmed.

    It starts slowly,
    then snowballs
    into more.

    You see, this period of time—
    it usually comes after
    what I tend to call
    the mind’s winter.

    I slip into a deep void
    of thought.

    January 8th…
    that’s the date.

    That’s when I drift inside.
    I get lost in my mind,
    and I stay there—
    one month—I’m gone.
    Lost in thought.

    One month
    leading up to my “big day,”
    the one they say
    should celebrate me.

    But I don’t see it that way.
    It’s just another day.

    And usually,
    I bounce back.
    It’s quick…

    but this?

    This feels like an attack—
    one month in my head,
    two weeks sick and then?

    I broke my glasses—
    vision—
    I lost access.

    And the longer I’m gone,
    the more I pull away,
    even as I—

    want to stay.

    You know what
    the worst part is?

    The worst part is—
    that I know why.

    I know why I do it…
    why I pull away.

    I’ve said the reason
    a hundred times,
    in nearly as many rhymes.
    It’s because you meant
    too much to me.
    I got scared and retreated
    into me.

    So here it is—
    March 21st,
    and I—

    I haven’t spoken to you
    since February 6th,
    and if I’m honest—

    I miss you.

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

  • Litany of the Unseen – A Poem About Devotion, Patience, and Unspoken Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece was originally written on May 16th, 2025 and revised on March 5th, 2026.

    When I first wrote it, I was trying to put language to a very specific feeling: the quiet intensity of caring for someone without the expectation of possession. Not infatuation, not conquest – something slower, more patient. Something willing to wait.

    When I revisited this poem nearly a year later, I realized the core of it hadn’t changed. What needed revision wasn’t the emotion, but the clarity of the language carrying it. So the edits focused on sharpening the rhythm and giving the poem room to breathe.

    At its heart, this piece is about devotion without pressure. About choosing someone’s mind, their spirit, their survival – long before anything physical ever enters the conversation.

    Some connections are loud.

    Others are learned slowly, like scripture – line by line, in candlelight.

    — Rowan Evans

    Open journal with handwritten poetry illuminated by candlelight in a dark gothic atmosphere symbolizing quiet devotion and longing.
    Some connections are learned slowly—like scripture read by candlelight.

    Litany of the Unseen
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I write you from the ache—
    that quiet hunger
    that doesn’t scream,
    only simmers
    beneath my ribs
    when I think of the way
    your silence
    feels like scripture.

    We’ve never touched.
    But gods,
    how I’ve memorized
    the shape of your mind
    like fingers tracing verses
    down a sinner’s spine.

    You are flame
    wrapped in frost,
    and I?
    I’ve learned to burn
    patiently—
    in half-light,
    between the lines
    we won’t say out loud.
    Not yet.

    I don’t flinch when you flinch.
    Don’t run
    when your walls rise like cathedrals.
    I kneel there,
    devout to the altar of your guardedness,
    lighting candles from the sparks
    you try to hide.

    You are my kind of wicked—
    a temptation carved
    in shadow and starlight.
    I’d follow your lead gladly,
    no leash needed.
    You won’t have to tell me to kneel—
    I’m already on my knees,
    in prayer to your divinity.

    I know the things you’ve survived
    don’t leave quietly.
    I’ve kissed ghosts before,
    I’ve held hands with trauma—
    I won’t ask you to exorcise yours.

    I only want to be
    the breath
    between your battlegrounds,
    a peace
    that doesn’t demand surrender.
    A vow made not in rings,
    but in the way I never leave
    when the light dies.

    You could dig your doubts
    into the marrow of my faith,
    and still
    I’d come bearing roses
    with thorns pressed
    to my own skin.

    Tell me to wait.
    I’ll grow roots.

    Tell me you’re not ready.
    I’ll build time in your image.

    Your heart doesn’t scare me.
    Not its lock,
    not its labyrinth.
    I will read your scars
    like secret psalms,
    and worship
    every wound
    that taught you
    to be wary of softness.

    You are a slow scripture—
    and I am learning your verses
    by candlelight,
    with tongue and tear,
    with patience
    dressed in velvet.

    I am not here for conquest.
    I am here for communion.

    So when you are ready—
    if you are ready—
    I’ll still be here.
    A sanctuary of unbroken promises,
    with fire in my hands
    and no expectations on my lips.

    Just the unspoken truth:
    You are already holy to me,
    even unseen.
    Even untouched.

    And I would choose your mind
    a thousand times
    before your body ever asked.

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

  • The Power I Chose – A Poem About Language, Connection, and Belonging

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    When I was a kid, other children wished for speed, flight, invisibility and teleportation. I wished to understand.

    This piece isn’t about wanderlust or escape. It’s about connection – the desire to meet people in the language they speak at home, in the rhythm that feels natural to them. I may not have superpowers, but I’ve spent years training my ear, listening with intention, and closing the distance in the ways I can.

    Some bridges are built with ink.
    Others are built with effort.

    — Rowan Evans

    A child on a playground at sunset looking up at glowing words in different languages in the sky, symbolizing connection and fluency.
    Some wished for flight. I wished for fluency.

    The Power I Chose
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Let me take you back
    to playground conversations—
    when superpowers
    were the topic at hand,
    and kids were wishing
    for flight, speed or teleportation.

    Then there was me—
    I wished for connection
    and fluency, for no language
    to be new to me.

    I wanted my ears to pick-up
    language and cadence,
    and my mouth to repeat it
    perfectly. I wanted,
    no matter where
    someone was—

    I wanted to be able
    to meet ’em,
    to greet ’em
    with the language
    they spoke at home.

    I pictured traveling
    touching every corner
    of the globe,
    absorbing language,
    perfecting cadence.
    Living in a rhythm
    not my own.

    Now, the power
    may not have been real,
    but I’ve done
    what I could
    to train my ear.
    Listen with intention,
    until all language
    felt the same.
    And I may not know
    what you’re sayin’,
    but it no longer
    feels foreign.

    I’ll keep learning,
    and opening doors.
    Closing gaps,
    connecting with souls—

    As I continue to wander
    this earth, in search
    of a place to call home.
    Until I feel the pull of roots,
    I will continue to put
    earth under boots.
    I will continue to move,
    never becoming static.

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

  • Distant Shores | A Poem About Longing, Growth, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from a recurring dream and a familiar pull — the quiet urge to move toward something that feels meaningful, even if the destination isn’t fully defined yet. It isn’t about a place so much as the feeling of possibility, of momentum returning, of wanting to grow into someone worthy of the journey ahead.

    Some shores are literal.
    Some are emotional.
    Some only exist because someone made you believe they might.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure standing on a quiet shoreline at dawn, looking out toward distant waves and a glowing horizon.
    Some journeys begin long before you ever leave—when the shore starts calling you back to yourself.

    Distant Shores
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s kind of wild how,
    you’ve been in my dreams
    for a while now.

    You’re always radiant as ever,
    you look like heaven—but better.
    You inspire every poem, word and letter,
    I write them with love, respect and care.
    If I could, I would always be there—

    I swear
    I will cross oceans,
    whether I catch a jet,
    swim or stowaway.
    I swear
    I will cross these waves,
    and we will walk the same shore
    some day.
    I swear—

    You make me, want to be
    a better me.
    To strive for more,
    instead of giving up
    like I had before.
    I had allowed myself
    to become trapped,
    inside the borders
    of my mind and
    country.

    You added fuel to a fire
    that had been silently burning.
    Right there, inside my chest.
    The embers smoldered in silence,
    until you, and the fire reignited—
    and now it roars.

    Once again, I dream of walking
    distant shores. But now…
    Now, I want them to be…

    Yours.

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

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Toward Somewhere I Can Breathe]
    A poem about feeling disconnected since fourteen, longing for somewhere that feels like home, and finally understanding that the journey isn’t about escape — it’s about alignment.

    [Disconnected Since Fourteen]
    A confessional poem about growing up disconnected—from place, from home, from belonging—and the quiet realization that the signal was never stable to begin with.

    [Still Tilting Elsewhere]
    A reflection on growing up with a compass that never pointed home—tracing the quiet rebellion of longing, the patience of dreams, and the feeling of always being angled toward somewhere else.

  • Working Toward Us | A Poem About Patience, Love, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from that subtle shift — the moment when someone stops being just a presence in your life and starts becoming a direction. It’s about the quiet work that happens behind the scenes, the way you start rearranging your habits, your thoughts, your intentions, not because you’re trying to impress someone, but because you genuinely want to meet them where they are.

    It’s not a confession.
    It’s not a promise.
    It’s an acknowledgment.

    A recognition that connection isn’t built in grand gestures, but in patience, consistency, and the willingness to grow into someone who can hold another person’s trust. This poem is me naming that process — the slow, steady movement toward “us,” whatever shape that eventually takes.

    Two people walking side by side on a quiet city street at sunset, symbolizing patience, trust, and growing connection.
    Sometimes love isn’t a leap — it’s a steady walk in the same direction.

    Working Toward Us
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s strange,
    the way things can change—
    the way a single person
    can make you want to
    rearrange everything.

    Isn’t it strange?

    The way someone can
    sit right there
    on the tip of the
    tongue.

    Isn’t it something?

    When every word
    spoken
    becomes a love token,
    simply because
    it carries a piece of them too.

    And every word written
    takes the shape
    of her silhouette.
    Because when my pen
    hits the page,
    it’s like a brush
    dancing across canvas.

    I try to capture
    the beautiful hues
    of a soul in motion,
    with nothing but ink
    and observation.
    Learning everything I can
    through conversation.
    I want to understand…

    I’m patient.

    But I want you to know,
    I’m working toward us—
    whatever shape that takes,
    I want to be
    somebody
    you can truly trust.
    Somebody
    you can lean on
    when things get
    a little too rough.

    I’m working toward
    you and I, walking
    the same streets.
    You and I, side by side
    enjoying life.

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

  • The Thread That Led Me Home | A Poem About Memory, Fog, and Finding Your Way Back

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’d been stuck in my head for days—looping memories, fogged thoughts, the usual spiral.

    Then I had a dream.

    In it, someone I care deeply about cut through the noise in the bluntest, most effective way possible. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t poetic. But it worked.

    This poem came from that moment—the realization that sometimes the way forward isn’t overthinking, but following the one thread that still feels steady.

    Even through the fog.

    A glowing thread leads through foggy woods toward a softly lit clearing at night, symbolizing guidance and emotional connection.
    Sometimes the way out of your head is just one honest thread—and the courage to follow it.

    The Thread That Led Me Home
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The fog rolls over hills,
    and a chill clings
    to my mind.
    Memories linger
    in flickering fragments,
    clinging static—
    the kind that hums
    behind the eyes,
    buzzing with moments
    I thought I buried
    but never really left.

    They circle back—
    whispers caught
    between stations,
    half-formed voices
    I almost recognize
    but can’t quiet name.
    Threads of memory
    tangled in the mist,
    pulling me back
    to places
    I never meant to revisit.

    I stumble through playgrounds,
    bumping off walls
    as I march down the hall.
    A single thread,
    I’ve begun to follow—
    It leads through memory,
    after memory.
    Twisting and turning,
    it knots—
    and I pause,
    fingers trembling
    over the tangle,
    wondering what unravels
    if I pull too hard.

    I run fingers
    over threads.
    Gripping soft,
    pulling slow—
    I watch
    as the string
    slips free—
    and it hums,
    like it’s guiding me.

    So I follow.

    Step after step,
    one foot
    in front
    of the other.
    I step and stumble
    through fog,
    thick as my thoughts.
    And when
    I feel lost,
    my fingers tighten
    grabbing the string
    like a lifeline.
    It’s the only guide
    through my mind.

    I stumble through,
    snapping twigs
    and branches.
    The rustle of
    rotting leaves
    under feet,
    until I see it.
    A light,
    a clearing.
    And when I reach it,
    when I find
    the strings conclusion—
    what do I see?

    You.
    A smile.
    Home.

    Closing Note

    Yesterday’s poem was about the weight of memory. This one is about the moment something — or someone — breaks through that weight. Not to fix it, not to erase it, but to remind me that I don’t have to walk through the fog alone.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Memory Lane Has No Exit]
    With my birthday approaching, I found myself trapped inside my mind—wandering memory lane, revisiting love, loss, and the moments that built me. This poem is a reflection on betrayal, survival, and the quiet realization that drifting isn’t the same as healing.

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

  • Fragile Pulse — A Poem About Finding Humanity Beneath the Machinery | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Fragile Pulse came from watching the world move on autopilot—how easily people slip into routines, expectations, and identities that aren’t truly their own. It’s a poem about alienation, yes, but also about the quiet, stubborn spark that still lives beneath all that machinery.

    This piece is my reminder that even in places that feel lifeless or mechanical, there are moments of real humanity—small flickers of authenticity that reach back when we reach out. It’s about connection in a world that often forgets how to feel, and about what it means to notice the spark in someone who thought theirs had gone out.

    A fragile pulse is still a pulse. And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.

    Illustration of a single glowing human figure surrounded by robotic, mechanical figures moving in a cold, dystopian cityscape.
    A fragile spark in a mechanical world — the pulse that refuses to fade.

    Fragile Pulse
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Oh, you’re here?

    Do you hear that?

    Listen—
    the hum of motors,
    the whir of gears.
    You see a land of people;
    I see a land of robots—
    not thinking,
    only following programs.

    They walk past you,
    faces blank,
    eyes fixed,
    hands moving in repetition,
    hearts forgotten in the chest,
    souls traded for schedules.

    And I watch—
    not with hope,
    not with judgment,
    but with quiet fascination
    at how easily the mind bends
    when freedom is a stranger.

    Do you hear it too?
    The faint pulse beneath the circuits,
    the tiny spark of something
    that refuses to be programmed.
    It’s fragile—
    like a candle in a storm,
    but it exists.
    I can feel it,
    even if the rest cannot.

    I reach out—
    not with force,
    not with commands,
    but with a touch gentle enough
    to tremble against wires and bone.

    Some notice;
    some do not,
    but the ones who do
    flicker for a moment—
    a shadow of thought
    breaking through the rhythm
    of their programming.

    And in that flicker,
    I see the impossible:
    a memory, a desire,
    a pulse that answers mine.
    A whisper shared
    between what is alive
    and what has almost forgotten how.

    Maybe it’s nothing,
    just a flicker in the dark,
    but even a single spark
    can set a world alight.
    I hold it close—
    this fragile pulse—
    and for a heartbeat,
    the land of robots
    becomes a land of us.

    If you enjoyed this piece, check out my full archive here: [The Library of Ashes]