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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: long-distance connection

  • Can’t Tell the Difference | A Poem About Dreams, Memory, and Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes the mind doesn’t separate things as cleanly as we’d like.

    Memory, imagination, longing–they start to overlap. What you’ve felt in dreams can become just as vivid as something you’ve physically lived. And after a while, the line between the two doesn’t disappear… it just stops mattering in the same way.

    Can’t Tell the Difference lives in the space.

    It’s not about confusion in a chaotic sense–it’s about the quiet disorientation of something feeling real enough to hold weight, even if you prove it happened the way you remember.

    Because emotion doesn’t always follow logic.

    And sometimes the question isn’t “did this happen?”
    It’s “why did it feel like it did?”

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing above a glowing city at night, with blurred dreamlike figures walking hand-in-hand below, symbolizing the line between memory and reality.
    Where memory and dreams blur—
    and feeling becomes its own kind of truth.

    Can’t Tell the Difference
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand on the edge
    of what’s real—
    and what isn’t.

    But I can’t tell
    the difference.

    Is it a dream,
    or a memory?

    I don’t know anymore.

    I’ve held your hand before.
    I know I have—
    there is no way,
    that was just a dream.

    It was too real.

    I could feel
    the sweat on your skin,
    the heat in the air—
    humidity clinging,

    busy streets alive
    with Jeepney beeps.

    So what is real?
    Is it what you’ve lived—
    or what you feel?

    Was it real
    or a dream,
    when I looked you in the eye,
    and said—

    I love you.

    Because I felt that.

    I felt the words
    leave my lips—

    I love you…

    echoing,
    like a record skipped.

    Every night
    in my dreams,
    I meet you
    on city streets.

    We walk,
    we talk,
    hand in hand—

    conversations
    only I could imagine.

    We talk about life,
    but never the future—
    just the now.

    The current moment.

    Because we move the same—
    drifting forward,
    unchained.

    And still—

    I stand on the edge
    of what’s real,
    and what isn’t.

    And I can’t tell
    the difference.

    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]

  • This Is Confession — A Neo-Gothic Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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 candlelit scene with an ink-covered page and spilled black ink, evoking a gothic, intimate confession.
    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 the Library of Ashes.