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

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]