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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Emotional-Intimacy

  • Maybe You’ll Want Me Too | A Poem About Affection, Attachment, and Being Chosen

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems arrive because of a grand idea.

    Others arrive because a single sentence refuses to leave.

    This was one of those.

    The poem began when I remembered a conversation. A joke, really. Someone once described themselves as being “like a drug” and we laughed about it. At the time, it felt playful, exaggerated, harmless.

    But memory has a way of revisiting things from a different angle.

    When I thought about that conversation later, I realized what interested me wasn’t the comparison itself. It was the experience of slowly realizing that someone has become part of your everyday thoughts without you noticing exactly when it happened.

    One day they’re simply someone you know.

    Then they’re someone you think about.

    Then they’re someone who quietly occupies space in your mind when nothing else is demanding your attention.

    The drug metaphor gave me a doorway into the poem, but it isn’t really what the poem is about.

    It’s about affection.

    It’s about attachment.

    It’s about the strange vulnerability of admitting that someone matters.

    More than that, it’s about the difference between being needed and being wanted.

    Need can feel transactional.

    Want feels chosen.

    The final lines became the emotional center for me because they capture a hope I think many people carry but rarely say aloud:

    Not that someone has to stay.

    Not that someone owes us their attention.

    Just that maybe, if given the choice, they would choose us too.

    Like a lot of my recent work, humor and metaphor show up first. They’re familiar territory. They’re comfortable. They make difficult things easier to approach.

    But beneath the jokes, the poem is doing what many of my poems eventually do.

    It’s confessing.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure standing beneath glowing city lights as colorful streams of light drift through the air, symbolizing affection, attachment, and lingering thoughts of someone special
    Sometimes affection arrives quietly—slipping into your thoughts until you realize someone has become part of your everyday world. ✨

    Maybe You’ll Want Me Too
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I remember when you said—
    you are like a drug.

    It was all laughs
    about your exes being hooked,
    still shook by the thoughts of you.

    But I was getting second-hand
    contact highs—

    now I feel addicted too.

    It’s like you’re in my bloodstream.
    You’ve rewired my brain,
    rebalanced the chemical compounds—
    you’re in nearly every single thought now.

    I try to hide it behind metaphors
    and jokes—an attempt to mask
    the fragile hope—

    that you won’t need me,
    but maybe you’ll want me too.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    [Not Rebuilding You]
    A poem about love as an act of presence rather than rescue. Through construction imagery, Not Rebuilding You explores trust, devotion, emotional safety, and the quiet work of building a foundation strong enough for healing to grow.

    [The Language Her Soul Speaks]
    What if love isn’t about being understood, but learning to understand someone else? “The Language Her Soul Speaks” is a free verse poem about intimacy, communication, curiosity, and the desire to know another person beyond the limits of language.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    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]

  • I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise | Love, Vulnerability & Staying Present

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Love has always felt heavy to me.

    Not in a bad way— just in a real way.

    I don’t connect lightly, and I don’t fall into feelings easily. So when I do care about someone deeply, it feels enormous. Like something inside me permanently shifts shape around them.

    That can be beautiful.

    It can also be terrifying.

    This piece came from realizing that vulnerability isn’t just saying “I love you.” Sometimes vulnerability is choosing to stay present after you realize someone has the power to hurt you.

    Not because they want to.

    Just because love makes that possible.

    But I think there’s something important about choosing connection anyway.

    Not idealizing someone. Not expecting perfection. Not asking them to heal you.

    Just deciding that the fear of losing connection shouldn’t matter more than the connection itself.

    There’s also a quiet promise buried in this piece.

    A promise to stop drifting when things become emotionally overwhelming. A promise to stay long enough to witness someone fully. To see them in daylight, not just darkness.

    Sometimes love isn’t rescue.

    Sometimes it’s simply saying:

    “I’m here. And I’ll still be here when the sun comes up.”

    — Rowan Evans

    A shadowed figure watching the sunrise through a window as warm morning light begins to fill the room.
    Sometimes love is not rescue—it’s choosing to stay long enough to see the sun rise.

    I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Dim the lights
    and close the blinds—

    I’m going to be
    honest for a minute,
    I don’t love easily.

    It’s not that I’m afraid.
    I’m not scared to love.

    It just doesn’t come
    without fees for me,
    it costs me something
    every time—I leave a piece
    of my heart behind.

    But the truth is—
    I never really felt love like that,
    everything was just a crush
    until you, that is.

    You—
    who resides in my thoughts now,
    who changed the way
    I see myself somehow.

    And the truth is—
    you didn’t do a thing, not really,
    you just made it safe
    to be honest.

    And I’ll be honest—
    I check your skies,
    before my own.

    The only thing that scares me
    is how much I care,
    that you can hurt me—

    and I’m hyperaware.

    But that’s not fair to you,
    to brace for ache
    when you carry your own pain—

    so even if I’m scared,
    I’ve got to face my fears.

    I’ve got to stay—
    I can’t let myself drift away.

    And I remember—
    you said I met you mid night,
    and the hope I’d see you
    in day light’s shine.

    This is my promise
    to be there,
    to witness it—

    I promise.
    I’ll be there
    to see your sunrise.

    Journey into the Hexverse...

    [Before We Created the Labels]
    Ancient gods return to a fractured world shaped by borders, identities, and separation. “Before We Created the Labels” explores humanity’s divisions through mythic imagery, sacred ritual, and symbolic collapse—asking what remains when we learn to see one another beyond labels.

    [The Unkindness Descends]
    “The Unkindness Descends” is a Gothic symbolic poem exploring collapse, transformation, and the unsettling experience of being witnessed during moments of unraveling. Through raven imagery, ambiguity, and ritualistic atmosphere, the poem invites multiple interpretations—spiritual, psychological, ominous, or transformative.

    [I Write Cathedrals]
    “I Write Cathedrals” explores faith, doubt, belonging, and the search for meaning beyond certainty. Through Gothic spiritual imagery and confessional reflection, the poem examines how writing can become a sacred space for questioning, wonder, and the people who feel displaced by traditional structures of belief.

    [Drought Resistant]
    “Drought Resistant” is a confessional poem about growing up poor in California’s Central Valley—where triple-digit heat, EBT cycles, dry ramen, and hard landscapes become part of emotional memory. Blending humor, slang, and working-class reflection, the poem explores survival, regional identity, and complicated love for the place that shaped you.

    [Escaped to the Page]
    “Escaped to the Page” is a confessional meta-poem about individuality, artistic identity, and surviving through writing. Blending sharp confidence with emotional vulnerability, the poem explores the difference between shared labels and lived experience—and the ways art becomes inseparable from the life behind it.

    [Ink as a Second Mouth]
    “Ink as a Second Mouth” explores the distance between thought and speech, and the ways writing can become a form of survival, continuity, and self-translation. Through confessional imagery and reflections on growth, identity, and articulation, the poem examines what it means to keep becoming through language.

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

  • Just Knowing You Has Been Enough | A Poem About Fear, Love, and Emotional Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some feelings become difficult to carry once they stop being hypothetical.

    You rehearse the words in your head, hide them in poems, disguise them as metaphors, bury them in “what ifs” and dream sequences—because saying them plainly makes them real.

    This piece came from that space between silence and confession.

    The strange place where fear and honesty start sounding alike.

    Not fear of loving someone.

    Fear of changing something that already matters deeply to you.

    Because sometimes the connection itself becomes so important that risking it feels terrifying.

    And sometimes love isn’t about perfection at all.

    Sometimes it’s just about seeing someone clearly—and caring anyway.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sits beside a softly lit window at night holding an open notebook in a quiet reflective atmosphere.
    Some truths stay hidden in poems long before they’re ever spoken aloud.

    Just Knowing You Has Been Enough
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I went quiet,
    but you never left my mind.

    I was silent—
    I had a lot to say,
    just didn’t know how to say it.

    I was afraid.
    Scared out of my mind.

    Everything I could have said,
    it didn’t feel right.
    It felt too heavy—
    too hard to carry.

    I had to set it down
    for a while.

    I had to sit with it,
    the words only spoken
    in my dreams.

    Dreams where,
    you never have the chance
    to respond.

    It feels wrong.

    But I wouldn’t want to
    speak for you.

    It’s been this way
    for a while now.

    I get too in my head,
    too hung up on
    what I have said—

    and what I want to say.

    They aren’t always
    the same.

    I’ve dropped hints
    in coded lines,
    wrote the words plain
    in poems about dreams—
    knowing they’d get overlooked.

    They’re not serious.

    But know this,
    the words written here
    are me being honest:

    I’m scared.
    I’m terrified,
    it’s true—
    but I really do
    love you.

    There’s no other way
    to say it.

    Because what is love—
    if not bias?

    And I am biased.

    Now what’s bias,
    if not seeing perfection
    where there is none?

    Because I know you’re not perfect—
    I’ve seen the cracks.
    I’ve listened to your stories,
    heard the lore—

    but here’s the thing,
    it’s not about perfection
    or lack thereof—
    it never has been.

    It’s about connection.

    It always has been.
    That’s all I’ve ever wanted,
    whatever shape that takes—
    I can be happy.

    Just knowing you
    has been enough.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Streets I Sleep When I Walk]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [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

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Beneath the Surface | A Poem About Deep Connection and Vulnerability

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece comes from a place of wanting more than surface-level connection.

    It’s easy to exist in spaces where we show only what’s safe–what’s presentable, what won’t be questioned too deeply. But I’ve always been drawn to what lives underneath that. The quiet parts. The complicated parts. The things people carry but don’t always speak out loud.

    This poem isn’t just about seeing someone–it’s about being trusted with what’s beneath the surface. The scars, the thoughts, the moments that shaped them in ways the world doesn’t always get to witness.

    There’s a kind of intimacy in that. Not in fixing or changing someone, but in understanding them. In holding space for everything they are, even the parts that feel hidden or unfinished.

    At its core, this piece is about connection–not the easy kind, but the kind that asks you to slow down, to listen, and to see someone fully.

    And maybe, to be seen the same way.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing at the edge of water with a glowing emotional world beneath the surface representing vulnerability and depth
    The surface is safe—but the truth lives beneath it.

    Beneath the Surface
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why are so many okay with
    settling at the surface?
    I want to dig deeper—
    get to the core of you.

    See where the roots lie,
    the ties that bind—
    let me see the universe
    behind your eyes.

    Windows to a galaxy
    all your own
    and I want to call,
    at least one of those worlds—
    my home.

    Let me go beyond
    what the eyes can see,
    let me peer within,
    let your soul breathe.

    Take a breath,
    relax.

    I just want to know—
    I want to see the essence,
    the truth,
    And all of the scars
    you don’t disclose.

    I want to hear the stories
    of the battles fought,
    the wars waged
    in silent thought.

    The ones
    nobody else knew—
    I want to help mend
    the fractures in you.

    The surface is safe,
    but I want the depths,
    the places
    where your heart has wept.
    I want to touch
    the parts untouched by light—
    where dreams
    and fears take flight.

    Let me see the storm
    inside your soul,
    the cracks,
    the pieces,
    the parts—
    that don’t feel whole.

    Because—
    I want to understand.

    Not just the surface,
    but every grain of sand.
    Every emotion, every tear—
    All of the things
    that make you real,
    that make you—

    You.

    Not the mask,
    not the show,
    But the truth
    you often don’t show.
    I want to see—
    to feel,
    and to know.

    The beautiful chaos
    that makes you whole.

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

  • Same Room (Emotionally) – A Poem About Long-Distance Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Connection doesn’t always require proximity.

    There’s a kind of closeness that exists beyond physical space–built through time, attention, and presence. It’s not something you can always point to, or prove, but it’s felt just the same.

    This piece is a response to a question that gets asked often: how can you miss someone you’ve never met?

    The answer is simple.

    Because connection isn’t measured in distance.
    It’s measured in impact.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people in separate spaces connected emotionally despite physical distance
    Distance doesn’t define connection.

    Same Room (Emotionally)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been asked—
    time and time again—
    how can you miss
    somebody
    you’ve never met?

    Just because
    her and I,
    have never been
    in the same room—
    physically.

    At the same time.

    Doesn’t mean
    we’ve never been
    in the same room—
    emotionally.

    And that’s
    what you don’t see.

    You don’t see—
    the patience,
    the presence,
    and the way she
    makes me
    feel…

    I am better than
    I have ever been.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [To Whom It May Concern…] (3/20)
    A raw exploration of vulnerability, fear, and self-sabotage—this poem captures the struggle between wanting to be seen and the instinct to hide.

    [Weathered] (3/21)
    A deeply introspective poem about confronting fear, breaking patterns, and choosing to stand in the storm instead of running from it.

    [No Parachute] (3/23)
    A poetic reflection on falling in love without hesitation—raw, uncertain, and without a safety net.

    [When I Started to Fall for You] (3/24)
    A lyrical exploration of love’s intensity—how connection grows, transforms, and reshapes the way we experience the world.

    [Bad Habit] (3/25)
    A powerful reflection on repetitive thought patterns, emotional loops, and the moment of realizing you’re stuck inside your own mind.

    [Same Sky] (3/26)
    A poetic meditation on longing, distance, and the quiet desire to share the same space—even when worlds apart.

    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]

  • 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]

  • Two Words: A Poem About Vulnerability, Consent, and Letting Go

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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

    Two figures standing close together in soft light, conveying quiet emotional intimacy and vulnerability.
    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.

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

  • Between Sun & Shore: A Poem About Healing, Love, and Becoming Whole

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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.

    Golden sunrise over a calm shoreline with soft waves and two distant figures standing in quiet closeness.
    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.

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