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.
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.
This poem came from a moment I didn’t expect—where wanting something and resisting it existed at the same time. It’s about consent without force, surrender without demand, and the strange vulnerability of realizing how easily someone can reach you simply by asking
Sometimes surrender isn’t taken—it’s given.
Two Words Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve never felt like this before—
never felt this loss of control.
Two words
and I can’t stop it.
Two words
and I just speak.
That’s all it takes for me.
I get a thought,
I hint at the thought—
Say it, she said.
So I said it.
I didn’t want to.
She didn’t make me.
She just asks
and I fold.
Between Sun & Shore was written in February of last year, during a season where I was learning what it felt like to be seen gently instead of weathered. It came from a place of quiet awe—of realizing that sometimes love doesn’t arrive like a storm, but like warmth. Like light finding its way through the cracks you thought would always stay broken.
This poem is about that in-between space: where grief softens, where healing begins, where you are no longer only the tide or the storm—but something new, something held. It’s about the moment you realize that someone hasn’t come to save you… they’ve come to grow beside you.
Where storms soften and light learns your name.
Between Sun & Shore Poetry by Rowan Evans
I once drifted like a wayward tide, Lost in the waves, nowhere to hide. Storms had carved their name in me, Each scar a tale, each wound a sea.
Then you arrived—a golden ray, Like sunrise spilling into the bay.
Your voice, a hymn the wind would weave, Soft as the hum of the monsoon’s reprieve. You traced my ruins, stone by stone, And turned them into sacred homes.
Now every ripple speaks your name, Each whispered breeze, each dancing flame.
Like sampaga’s quiet grace, You bloom where sorrow left its trace. Between Sun and Shore, love grew— A bridge of light, leading to you.
This poem is about safety—not the kind that cages, but the kind that invites you to stay. It’s about finding someone who doesn’t demand your strength or survival instincts, only your honesty. Someone who makes asking for help feel like an act of trust rather than surrender.
1-4-3 is a quiet confession of rootedness. Of choosing presence over flight. Of love that doesn’t chase or trap, but steadies.
Sometimes the bravest thing we do is stop running—and stay.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes love isn’t about needing someone—it’s about choosing to stay.
1-4-3 Poetry by Rowan Evans
1-4-3 My Muse Avenue, where I dwell— where the words swell. Girl, you don’t understand; you inspire my ink well.
When I feel lost, and in need of help, it’s you I turn to. Not because I expect you to fix me— simply because you make it safe enough to ask.
And that’s no small feat, because fear used to run my feet. Any time I felt safe, any flicker of hope in my chest, my feet would begin to move.
But this time? They stay planted— firm, like roots, unwilling to move. Because you…
Shadows and Stars grew out of that quiet kind of love that doesn’t ask for transformation—only truth. It’s a devotion rooted in darkness as much as light, where two imperfect people find a rhythm that doesn’t require saving or fixing, just seeing. This poem is about loving someone exactly as they are—the sharp edges, the softness, the chaos, the fire—and trusting that the right souls don’t dilute each other. They orbit together.
Two souls, bound by gravity and devotion, meeting where shadow and starlight become one.
Shadows and Stars Poetry by Rowan Evans
I am not here to save you,
because I am no savior.
And you—
you are no damsel in distress,
you’re just stressed.
Life might be
somewhat of a mess,
but you’re still worth it,
nonetheless.
And I’m not here to fix you,
because you’re not a fixer-upper.
You’re a person—
complex and perfect
in your imperfections.
Your darkness
matches mine.
I find,
in these shadows,
we’re two of a kind,
you and I.
No, I don’t want to change you.
Why would I want to change you?
To change you would be to
sand down the edges I’ve come to love.
You see—
I love it when you’re mean.
I love the bite, the burn, the sting.
I love when you talk shit,
spit venom.
You say you’re crazy? I love that too.
I love the attitude, the dominance you exude,
and I love it when you’re gentle.
It’s simple—
it’s you. It’s always been.
Two stars, orbit in tandem.
And here we stay,
constellations intertwined,
your shadows in my light,
my darkness in your shine.
This Is Confession is one of those pieces that arrives when I’ve stopped trying to be poetic and instead let myself be honest. It’s less a poem and more a moment of emotional transparency—an admission pulled straight from the chest rather than crafted on the page.
I have a habit of writing around the things I feel most deeply, hiding truth between metaphors or reshaping it into imagery so it feels safer. This time, I didn’t want safety. I wanted clarity. I wanted to name the weight and tenderness of caring for someone quietly, intensely, without performance or pretense.
Sometimes the most frightening thing we can do is say something plainly. Sometimes the bravest thing is letting the truth stand without armor.
This piece is that bravery for me.
— Rowan Evans
A moment of truth written in ink—where confession becomes poetry.
This Is Confession Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve done this once before, but this isn’t poetry… This— this is confession.
This is me spilling my guts in ink-carved words. Even on the days we don’t talk, you’re still at the forefront of my thoughts. Your name lingers on the tip of my tongue. You’re my favorite topic— not to sound too obsessive.
But even obsession feels too small a word for the way my thoughts orbit you.
You’re the gravity I return to, even on the days I swear I’m drifting. Some names echo— yours resonates.
I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere between your laughter and your pain, I started carrying pieces of you like they were my own.
I kept it quiet. I didn’t say a thing.
Not because I’m ashamed, but because admitting it feels like stepping into a room lit only by truth— and truth has never been gentle with me.
It’s always been the same: people take what they want from me— then they leave. Or they leave the moment I open up, start to spill my guts, just a little— when I get a little too real, too much, too feel.
Two truths and a lie… The truth is— I’ve always cared more than I should, and I’ve always been better at hurting myself than disappointing anyone else.
The lie is pretending I don’t feel all of this every time you cross my mind.
Because the truth is— you do. Every day. In ways I don’t admit out loud, in ways I fold quietly between the lines of every poem I swear isn’t about you.
And maybe this is reckless, maybe this is too much— but confession was never meant to be safe.
It was meant to be honest. And honestly? I’d spill every last secret I have if it meant you’d understand even a fraction of how deeply you live in me.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
If the first vow was silence, this one is surrender. It’s the echo that follows devotion — love as burden willingly shouldered, as ache freely chosen. Where the first vow offered peace, this one offers endurance.
It’s the second breath of a promise I never meant to make out loud — that I would take the weight from the shoulders of the one I love, not because I’m strong enough, but because I must. Because love, in its truest form, is not selfless — it is shared suffering, shared salvation.
I meant every word of the first vow. And this one, too.
“Love is not selfless — it is shared suffering, shared salvation.” — Rowan Evans
I Love You (Enough to Break Willingly) Poetry by Rowan Evans
To let the ink run dry, that’s what I said. I’d give my voice for your smile. And I meant it too.
But even more than that, I’d break willingly for you.
Give me the weight, the pressure that you carry. I’ll hoist it on my back, I’ll walk with you. Let your steps be lighter, let your mind find ease for a while.
I’d carry it all, even if it breaks me. ‘Cause I’d break willingly…
This is the second vow— that I’ll never say outloud, but still I’ll prove it… I’ll prove it, somehow. If it meant your life was a breeze, I’d let it pull me to my knees. I’d bend and break for you.
Even more than that, I’d break willingly.
The Silent Vows
I Love You (Enough to Go Silent) A vow written in ink and silence — a confession of love so deep it would sacrifice its own voice to spare another’s tears. “I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)” is a Neo-Gothic devotion from Rowan Evans, where the act of not speaking becomes the loudest declaration of love.
Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You serves as a spiritual successor to a poem I shared back in June — a piece that spoke of wanting to be “the last one,” not the first. Where that poem lived in longing and quiet promise, this one lives in the present moment — in laughter, teasing, honesty, and connection.
It’s a reflection on how love, in its truest form, doesn’t always need to shout. Sometimes it’s enough to show up, to care openly, to let someone know that even the smallest moments are extraordinary because they are shared.
This piece, like so many before it, was written for the one who inspires the gentler parts of me — my muse who reminds me that being soft is not the same as being weak, that tenderness can be its own kind of rebellion.
She will know it’s her — she always does.
Inspired by the quiet moments that become extraordinary when shared with someone who truly sees you.
Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You Poetry by Rowan Evans
You laughed about him— he’s an asshole, you said— “Most guys are,” I replied, “I’d say I’m probably an exception… but some people might think I’m an asshole.” You didn’t hesitate. “No, you’re not.” And that was enough— a single truth, quiet but steady, like a hand on the small of my back when everything else wobbles.
Later, you startled me. “Omg, fuck,” you said, and my chest jumped before I even knew why. I told you, it’s okay—proof I care. You replied, “You don’t need proof. You know I know.” And the world shrank, everything else left behind except the way your words settled in my chest.
We talked about how he doesn’t really get you— how he’s always asking about the future when you just want to live in the moment. We talked about how his plans are boring as hell, how you’re aching for a thrill.
You said you’d tease him on the ferris wheel, your laugh filling the night, “I’d suffocate him with my boobies.” And without missing a beat, I said— “If he’s not up for it, I’ll take his place.” And it wasn’t bravado—it was instinct. Because being near you makes me brave in ways I didn’t know I could be.
You spoke of thrill rides— bungee jumps and wall climbs. “I’ve always wanted to try,” I admitted. “But it would take the right person, someone who could push me through.” You responded with one single word: “Me.” And just like that, fear felt smaller— the leap somehow possible if I took it with you.
I don’t need to be first. I don’t even need to be noticed yet. I just need to be the one who stays, who laughs at your jokes, who trembles when you almost make my heart stop, who shows up because you matter.
I will be that one. Not loud, not flashy. But here. Always here. Waiting for the ordinary moments that turn extraordinary because they are ours.
I wrote this in the quiet between 4 and 5 a.m., when my thoughts refused to let me sleep because they kept circling back to her. Not out of longing alone, but from a deeper wish—that she might know peace, that her smile might return without effort, that her chest might rise and fall free of heaviness. This piece is not a love poem in the usual sense. It is a prayer, a vow, a cathedral built from words to hold her burdens for a while so she can simply breathe.
A Cathedral for Her Peace – a poetic sanctuary of love, devotion, and quiet reverence by Rowan Evans.
A Cathedral for Her Peace Poetry by Rowan Evans
She’s on my mind, like all of the time. Got me on my knees again speaking to Him. Just askin’ for ease, begging for her peace.
“God… give me her trials, let me carry the weight for a while. I just want to see her smile.
Let me take away her pain— be her umbrella in the rain, the shelter when storms arrive.”
Let her walk where the sun leans soft, where the wind sings lullabies instead of sirens, where shadows dare not linger. Let her laughter ring like bells in a cathedral, her tears fall only for joy, every sigh a hymn of comfort.
I will be the echo of her unspoken prayers, the vessel that holds her storms, the altar upon which her dreams may rest unbroken. She deserves peace that drapes like velvet, a hush that whispers, you are safe. You are enough.
She deserves to be spoiled in love, revered in touch, to have every desire mirrored back as truth. Let every gaze that falls upon her see her crown, not a shadow to tame, but a flame to worship. I will guard the sanctity of her being as a priest guards a holy relic, as a fortress holds the key to a kingdom.
I will carry the weight she should never have to bear, stand unwavering where darkness tempts, and watch over her like a cathedral standing sentinel through every storm, every unkindness, every cruel word the world might hurl her way.
Even if I am not the one to give it, let me be the one to show her she is worth it all. To show her she is lovable, truly, even if she gets a little unruly, even if the world whispers otherwise. Let her know, without question, that in my eyes, she is enough, she has always been enough, and she deserves nothing less than reverence.
Closing Note
If you’ve ever felt that same ache—for someone else’s joy to matter more than your own—then you already understand what this poem carries. Love is not always about possession or proximity; sometimes it is simply devotion, a fierce hope that the ones we care for find rest and light.
If this speaks to you, I invite you to share your own prayer, blessing, or small wish—for the person on your heart, for the soul you’d carry through storms if you could. Together, may we remind each other that reverence is not rare, and that offering peace to another is among the purest forms of love.
May these words linger like candlelight in the quiet corners of your heart. If you wish to wander further into shadows and flame, the doors ofThe Library of Ashesawait, holding the stories of devotion, ruin, and reverence, all bound in ink and ember.
This piece is a devotion in disguise — written in the quiet hours between timezones, between breaths, between guarded words and aching hearts. It’s about witnessing someone deeply, loving them gently, and holding space without asking for anything in return. I wrote it for one person. But maybe, just maybe… it’s for you, too.
Even in different timezones, love finds a way to stay.
Invocation
For the ones who learned to love with their silence before their words. For those who trace the weather in someone else’s sky, just to understand them better.
Manila Time Poetry by Rowan Evans
I didn’t notice at first— how your name sat gently on my tongue long before I ever said it aloud.
It was just a widget at first, a second clock on my home screen, ticking in time with your sunrise. A quiet devotion disguised as practicality.
2 A.M. your time meant I braced for tremors— not the kind that crack the earth, but the kind that crack the heart.
I knew your moods by minutes, learned the language of your silence before your voice ever filled the gaps.
You didn’t have to tell me when the storms had come— I already knew how they sounded in the rhythm of your typing.
I kept the weather on standby— not for small talk, but to understand your discomfort. Humidity clings like anxiety sometimes.
You never asked for me to care this much. You didn’t have to. I fell into it like breath, like the gravity of your pain was a call I couldn’t ignore.
You asked to hear my voice— I didn’t expect your laugh to bloom like that, all giggles and soft disbelief when I called yours cute. Even in five minutes, you carved out a place in my memory no one else had touched.
The second call— quiet, trembling. You didn’t speak, just cried. I didn’t leave. I let silence speak love in a language you could trust.
Now, we fill hours with shared breath and soft truths. You cry freely with me now— your vulnerability, no longer met with silence or shame.
I listen. When your ghosts scream, I speak your name softly until they back down.
And still— you tell me all the reasons you believe people leave: your fire, your scars, your unfiltered honesty, your storm-bred instincts to guard, to bite, to run.
But I’m not made of fear. I’m stitched together with patience, with soft hands that don’t flinch at the weight of your story.
You called yourself broken. I call you brave. You called yourself darkness. But I’ve seen your light, even when you tried to hide it beneath a growl.
You listed your “red flags” like a warning. I read them like a love letter:
Anger? Just fire misplaced. Paranoia? A wound learning to trust. Possessive? You mean devotion. Jealous? You just care deeply. Strict? I’m listening, Ma’am. Unpredictable? Adventure. Bitchy? A woman with boundaries. Sarcastic? Fluency. Selfish? Please, take what you need. Sadist? Well, I bruise easy, and gladly. Darkness? I’ve been waiting in it for someone like you.
And if you told me to hang up on anyone else? I wouldn’t even hesitate. One word, and I’m yours.
I’ve told you—again and again— I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re quiet. Not when you’re hurting. Not even when your trust flinches.
Because I mean it when I say you’re important to me. I mean it when I say I wish I could be there— to hold you when you cry, to remind you that what he did was not your fault. That none of this is a reflection of your worth.
You are lovable. You are valuable. You are deeply, profoundly loved. And if you let me, I will carry what I can of the weight you weren’t meant to bear alone.
Love doesn’t always need permission to show up. It just needs a door cracked open. And yours, even guarded, has never once made me turn away.
I’ll keep showing up, in silence, in storms, in Manila time, and every moment in between.
And if I could— I would cross every mile between us, burn every timezone just to taste the air you breathe when you laugh. I’d trade sleep for a moment to watch you smile in real time. To brush away the weight behind your eyes with my fingers, and say with trembling certainty— you are safe with me.
Because the truth is, somewhere between those late-night calls and stolen giggles, I fell for you.
Not in a crashing, desperate way, but in the kind of falling that feels like floating— like peace. Like coming home to a place I’ve never been but always longed for.
I fell for your storm and the quiet that follows it. I fell for your voice, how even your sarcasm feels like warmth wrapped in armor. I fell for the way you fight your pain and still manage to be soft with me.
And I know you’ve been let down by people who promised the moon then blamed you when it disappeared. But I am not a promise— I’m a presence.
I don’t need you to always be easy to love. I just want to love you exactly as you are.
So if you’re asking— yes, I want to be yours.
Not just in soft texts and teasing words, not just in Manila time and midnight devotion— but in all timezones, in all the messy, terrifying, beautiful ways this could become real.
I’ll wait. I’ll stay. I’ll love you here, and if you ever ask me to— I’ll love you there, too.
Benediction
May you find someone who knows your storms and stays anyway. May your name always be spoken with reverence — even in silence, even across oceans.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 