The first explores connection as transaction— contact that is measured, conditional, and finite.
The second turns toward intimacy that is not negotiated, but inhabited— the kind that alters internal architecture rather than leaving marks on the skin.
What follows is not about harm versus healing, but about impact.
— Rowan Evans
The body recovers. The mind remembers.
Body/Mind Poetry by Rowan Evans
Part I: Body
They can break you in body— measure desire in effort and result, hands fluent in cause and effect.
Touch that asks, what do I get?
Pressure applied, response expected. A transaction of skin, signed in sweat.
When it’s done, nothing follows.
No echo, no after.
Just the body— learning how to rest.
Part II: Mind
But there are those who break you in mind— without ever touching you.
They listen past your sentences, hear what you edit out, notice the way your breath changes mid-thought.
They don’t demand. They remain.
They sit until your defenses get tired of standing.
And suddenly you’re telling the truth by accident.
This isn’t force. It’s gravity.
By the time you notice, your inner furniture has been rearranged, and the door you locked years ago…
is standing open.
Closing Note
Let the body heal quickly.
It always does.
It’s the mind— once altered— that never returns to its original shape.
This poem carries pieces of a real exchange—one spark of truth that ignited the rest. Whisper Me Across is half confession, half invocation: a conversation remembered, reimagined, and rewritten in the language of devotion. Reality is the match; the poem is the flame.
— Rowan Evans
An echo of devotion that lingers across worlds.
Whisper Me Across Poetry by Rowan Evans
I know we’ve joked about this—
tossed it around in little quips,
laughing so we wouldn’t feel
the weight beneath it.
But I have a genuine request.
If you pass,
promise you’ll haunt me.
Be the knock in the wall,
the whistle in the breeze—
the chill of air that drifts in
and brushes against my cheek.
Promise you’ll let me know you’re there.
Don’t leave me wondering,
don’t make me question.
If you want me to survive it,
you’ll have to give me a sign—
because I would happily die
just to cross over and meet you
on the other side.
And I promise the same.
I’ll be the voice you hear
leaning into your ear,
quietly saying your name.
I’ll be the presence that settles
behind your ribs
when you feel a sudden surge of strength
and choose to push through.
That will be me—
still with you.
I’ll be the voice that pushes back
each time you falter.
When you think you’re not worthy,
not worth it—
I’ll be the whisper that refuses
to let that take root.
Speaking free,
folding into your thoughts,
reminding you
of your worth.
This piece is me speaking to the one I care for, and to anyone who has ever let themselves be seen fully by another. There’s no illusion here—no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors. The “magic” I write about is the kind that happens when trust meets attention, when care meets desire, when devotion meets surrender. It’s messy, it’s quiet, it’s real. I wrote this to honor that kind of connection—the one that burns steady, that makes even the smallest moments feel sacred, and that reminds me why we give ourselves to the people we love.
Intimacy becomes its own kind of magic.
The Power You Give Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m a magician, love—
sleight of hand in every touch,
danger in every whisper.
Not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats,
but the kind that pulls want
from the deepest parts of you
without even trying.
I touch you once—
and your breath forgets itself.
Twice—
and your pulse starts writing poetry
against your skin.
I speak a single word
and your knees remember
what surrender feels like.
My tongue is a wand,
a spellcaster,
a maker of quiet ruins—
and I use it
only on the deserving.
I can summon heat
with the drag of a fingertip,
pull desire from the air
like it’s silk waiting to be woven.
I draw circles on your skin
and watch them ignite,
slow, deliberate,
like I planned the fire
from the very beginning.
And when I say your name—
soft, low,
with that tone that hits you
right behind the ribs—
you’ll swear I enchanted you.
But it’s simpler than that.
No potions, no charms, no lies.
You react to me
because your body knows mine
before your mind catches up.
Because my magic isn’t tricks—
it’s instinct,
connection,
hunger braided with reverence.
And darling—
when I’m finished with you,
when you’re breathless and undone,
when the world goes quiet
except for the echo of my touch—
you’ll realize
I never cast spells at all.
I just showed you
the power you give me
when you let me close.
Because loving you—
that’s the real magic.
The kind that doesn’t spark
or shimmer,
but settles low and warm
right behind the heart,
glowing steady
like a lantern in a storm.
You don’t see it,
but every time you trust me,
every time you soften,
every time you let me
see the part of you
you hide from the world—
I feel something inside me
kneel.
Not out of worship,
but out of awe.
Out of the quiet truth
that your soul
is the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever been allowed to touch.
And if my hands
feel like sorcery,
if my voice
feels like a spell,
it’s only because
you turn even the smallest moment
into something sacred
just by being in it.
So yes—
I’ll whisper enchantments
against your skin,
trace constellations
on your pulse points,
pull storms and light and heat
from the spaces between us—
but that’s not power.
That’s devotion.
That’s choosing you
with every breath.
That’s giving you
the softest parts of me
and letting you hold them
like something holy.
And if that feels like magic—
then maybe it is.
But it’s yours.
It always has been.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 