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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Long-distance love

  • Let Me Be Pacific | A Poem About the Ocean, Distance, Love, and Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There are some places that become more than places.

    An ocean can be a physical distance, a horizon, a body of water stretching farther than the eye can follow. But sometimes it becomes something else entirely—a canvas, a metaphor, a meeting place between two people who happen to be standing on opposite sides of the world.

    Let Me Be Pacific began with a simple invitation: let me show you the ocean the way I see it.

    From there, the words wandered where they wanted to go.

    Purple skies. Silver moons. Dark water. Rhymes. Trees. Wordplay.

    And eventually, the Pacific became more than scenery.

    It became the space between here and there—and the reminder that something can cross an enormous distance without ever needing to disappear.

    So, for a moment, come sit beside me on the shoreline.

    Let me paint you a picture.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary poet sits beside the Pacific at twilight beneath a silver moon, watching its reflection shimmer across the waves.
    The Pacific may separate two shores, but poetry has never been particularly good at respecting distance.

    Let Me Be Pacific
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Here let me take my words
    and paint a picture for you—
    the sky in shades of purple and blue,
    lit by the silver moon—
    it lingers over the bay,
    that’s where it stays—
    watching over the tide,
    and I sit on the shoreline—
    watching the ocean’s waves.

    Which ocean? Okay,
    here let me try and spell it out,
    let me be Pacific—
    it’s off the California coast,
    it touches the Philippine Sea,
    sits between Japan and Me.

    Now back to the imagery—
    there was me, next to a happy little tree,
    and the moon was shimmering,
    trembling across dark water—
    back on the shoreline,
    having written more lines,
    not less, but more rhymes.

    So let me stay Pacific—
    specific in the way I see the sea,
    how every wave feels like a message
    sent across the world to me.
    I sit, I rhyme, I watch the tide—
    the ocean’s big, but so’s my mind.

    And if you ask me why I write
    beside this ocean every night—
    it’s because the tide keeps teaching me
    how distance isn’t always far,
    how even the Pacific can carry a heart
    from California to wherever you are.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [My Nightmare]
    A poem about the nightmare of loving someone across distance, seeing the world from different perspectives, and holding onto the hope that the cracks can still be repaired—and that someday two separate shores might become one.

    [Rose & Ruin]
    Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.

    [Across the Page-cific]
    A playful, autobiographical journey through the strange places poetry can take me—from sandwich heartbreak and pasta diss poems to gothic monsters, mythology, ravens, ghosts, and storms across the page. Beneath the absurdity is something deeply personal: the realization that writing gave me a way to rebuild myself, piece by piece.

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

  • My Nightmare | A Poem About Love, Distance, Hope, and Kintsugi

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some nightmares aren’t about monsters.

    Sometimes the nightmare is waking up and realizing that the person you want beside you is standing beneath a completely different sky.

    My Nightmare comes from that place—the uneasy space between memory and hope, between what once felt shared and what now feels impossibly far away. It is a poem about distance, but not only the physical kind. There is distance between perspectives, between hearts, between the lives we imagine and the lives we are actually living.

    Still, even nightmares have endings.

    Sometimes you wake up before they become permanent.

    And sometimes, even while dreaming, you can still see a little gold threaded through the cracks.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two distant figures stand on separate shores beneath different moons, connected across the dark ocean by faint golden and platinum threads.
    Two shores. Two skies. One horizon—and enough gold left to believe they might meet there.

    My Nightmare
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    your moon from my sky
    is missing—
    the sun no longer shines,
    it’s dimming—

    I don’t see the spark anymore—
    don’t see the light in the dark anymore.
    What do I even I write for?
    I lost my purpose—think I did it on purpose,
    it’s like I can’t rhyme anymore,
    no clock, no watch, can’t tell time anymore.

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    my moon is sickly pale,
    but yours seems fine though—
    the sun doesn’t provide light,
    it’s gotten real low—

    in times before, this is when
    I would Kintsugi the heart—
    but there’s not much heart left,
    it’s all gold—soft metal,
    softer soul—stayed warm,
    when the world grew cold.

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    when we used to be,
    two pieces the puzzle
    was missing—
    the sun in the sky was fine,
    but it dimmed in our shine—

    I’ve spent time doing Kintsugi
    on your heart too—it was hard not to,
    gold and platinum weaved through—
    I really did see you, flaws and all—
    and all I saw was a gift from God.

    I still don’t think—
    I was wrong.

    But that was my nightmare…

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we saw was different—
    but I still see the gold threads that connect,
    the platinum hope on the horizon,
    that one day the distance will close—
    and we’ll walk the same shore,
    it won’t be—

    mine and yours.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Dreaming Wrong]
    A familiar dream becomes unsettling when the ocean becomes a pond, the tide disappears, the moon loses its reflection, and nothing feels quite like it belongs. Dreaming Wrong explores the uncanny feeling of finding yourself inside a dream that looks familiar—but feels like someone else’s.

    [Poet’s Curse]
    Poet’s Curse explores the painful side of falling too deeply: giving pieces of yourself away freely, taking accountability for your own heartbreak, and realizing that learning to let go can be harder than learning to love.

    [Beach to Beach]
    A dream becomes a journey between familiar shores and unfamiliar cities in Beach to Beach (How I Get There), a poem about imagined travel, ocean crossings, longing, and the places we hope to someday reach while awake.

    [Where the Metaphors Lead]
    Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.

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

  • Băobèi – A Devotional Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Băobèi was written last year during a season of longing—when affection felt vast, distant, and almost mythic. It lived quietly in my drafts, waiting for a moment when it could breathe on its own.

    This poem is devotion rendered as geography: islands, blossoms, moonlight, and stars becoming a language for love. It is about carrying someone in every word, every breath, every imagined horizon. About how a name can become a compass.

    Some poems are born loud.
    This one waited.

    Moonlit shoreline with cherry blossoms and glowing flowers beneath a star-filled sky
    A garden of light—where devotion blooms between shore, sky, and dream.

    Băobèi
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Băobèi—
    your beauty rivals that of the Sakura,
    petals like whispered secrets
    drifting through my ink-stained veins.
    And I got your name,
    tatted on the tip of my tongue,
    your essence lives in every word that I say,
    haunting the shadows of my pen,
    echoing in the silence between heartbeats.

    Now I’m hopping islands, in search of
    your divineness. Your royalty,
    I bow to you, your highness.
    I crowned you the queen
    of my twilight kingdom.
    Your loyal subjects,
    all shadows of my thoughts.

    Cherry blossoms fade,
    but your radiance lingers,
    Orchid petals from Mindoro
    drip like honeyed secrets,
    Lotus from distant ponds
    mirrors your serene grace,
    Frangipani drifts across the wind,
    carrying your laughter.
    Sampaguita blooms in hidden corners,
    its tiny white stars like your quiet strength,
    Ylang-ylang whispers perfume into the night,
    each scent a pulse of your heartbeat
    I am drawn to like the tide.

    I trace the heavens in your honor—
    a moon suspended over Manila Bay,
    its reflection trembling across dark water,
    mirroring the tremor in my chest
    each time your name passes my lips.
    The Milky Way drapes over islands and mountains,
    a silken veil for your light to wander beneath,
    and I follow, tracing your essence
    through ink, shadow, and the spaces between heartbeats,
    until the world itself becomes
    a garden of your light.

    You are the rose in my ruin,
    the bloom I cradle in the ashes of my nights,
    the ink I spill across silent pages,
    and I am forever your humble witness,
    your loyal poet in a kingdom
    built from devotion, dusk, and flame.

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

  • Timelines Worth Rewriting – A Neo‑Gothic Confessional Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a meditation on love that demands patience, courage, and total presence. It is written for those whose hearts have been tested, broken, or misread—and for the people brave enough to stay, to witness, and to hold. It is about devotion, reverence, and the quiet power of being fully seen.

    Kintsugi-repaired heart glowing under moonlight with floating clock fragments and falling embers in a soft gothic atmosphere.
    Every fracture tells a story—and some loves are brave enough to rewrite the timeline.

    Timelines Worth Rewriting
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (Written April 21, 2025)

    Don’t fall in love with me
    unless you’re ready for time zones and tenderness,
    for clocks set to your breath
    even when you’re not speaking.
    Unless you know how to read
    the unsent messages
    I whisper into the quiet of 3 a.m.,
    when my world is still sleeping
    and I am drowning
    in the silence between our heartbeats.

    I didn’t mean for this to happen.
    You were someone else’s—
    a name I only knew
    through the tremble in your voice,
    a shadow of a boy
    who left bruises where joy should’ve bloomed.
    You were a poem already breaking,
    and I…
    I just wanted to be a page
    that didn’t hurt to land on.

    I wasn’t chasing fire.
    I was tending embers.
    The way I always do—
    with a soul stitched together by
    the broken glass of old timelines,
    where love meant losing myself
    in someone else’s storm.
    But you were different.
    You asked nothing—
    and gave everything in glances
    you didn’t know were sacred.

    I told myself the clock widget
    was just a kindness.
    A way to say
    good morning, warrior,
    good morning, beautiful,
    good morning, still-here.
    But the truth?
    It became my North Star.
    A constant.
    A compass pointing always to you.

    I fell in love the way
    only a person who’s clawed their way through shadow can—
    with reverence.
    With awe.
    With hands that tremble
    but still reach.

    I saw your pain
    like an open door
    to a familiar room—
    and I walked in,
    not to fix you,
    but to sit beside you
    in the ruins.
    Because I’ve been there.
    Because I carry my own ghosts,
    and I name them in poems
    so they don’t haunt me in sleep.

    They say I should’ve stayed away.
    That I’m playing with fire.
    But fire never scared me—
    I was forged in it.
    Born of battle cries
    and whispered truths
    and a girlhood denied.
    I don’t wear guilt for things I didn’t break.

    And I didn’t break you.

    He did.

    He, who saw your softness as weakness.
    He, who mistook your loyalty
    for something owed.

    But me?
    I saw the Queen beneath the scars.
    I saw the way you held yourself together
    with gold-threaded hope,
    kintsugi soul—
    every crack shining brighter
    because you never stopped choosing to try.

    Don’t fall in love with me
    if you’re afraid of complicated truths.
    Because I will love you
    with the same hands
    that once wrote suicide notes
    and now write survival stories.
    Because I will see your shadows
    and still call you light.

    Don’t fall in love with me
    if you’re not ready to be seen completely—
    every bruise, every brilliance,
    every whisper you’ve never spoken aloud.
    I do not love in fractions.
    I do not flinch from the messy,
    the haunted, the hungry parts of you
    You think no one could ever stay for.
    I will.
    But only if you’re ready.
    Only if your heart can bear being held
    without armor.

    I didn’t plan to fall.
    But you spoke in moonlight,
    and I’ve always been lunar-bound.
    Tied to tides.
    Pulled by gravity
    in the shape of your laugh.

    And even if you never say my name
    the way I hope,
    even if I am just a season
    you remember when it rains—
    know that I loved you
    without agenda,
    without shame,
    without asking for anything
    but to witness your rise.

    Don’t fall in love with me
    unless you’re ready
    to be the reason I believe
    there are timelines worth rewriting.

    More of my poetry can be found here: The Library of Ashes

  • The Prayer of Two Tongues | Bilingual Love Poem in English & Tagalog by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I am still learning Tagalog, and weaving it into my poetry is both a challenge and a gift. Each line allows me to stretch my voice, to listen for new rhythms, and to bridge myself a little closer to the cultures and people who have shaped my heart.

    This poem was written for my muse—someone very dear to me, though we have never met in person. All of our connection lives across oceans, across screens, across distance. The intimacy here is not physical but emotional: the kind of closeness that survives only in dreams, prayers, and the quiet ache of longing.

    You will notice that the English lines do not mirror the Tagalog exactly. This was intentional. The Tagalog carries a direct, tender clarity, while the English expands the imagery into echoes and shadows. In this way, the two tongues speak together but not the same, much like how love must find different shapes when it exists across distance.

    For me, this bilingual writing is not just translation—it is transformation. A love poem stretched across languages, across longing, and across the impossible space between two hearts that have yet to touch.

    – Rowan Evans

    Abstract artwork symbolizing a bilingual love poem written in English and Tagalog, representing distance, intimacy, and prayer.
    “The Prayer of Two Tongues” — a bilingual love poem in English and Tagalog by Rowan Evans.

    The Prayer of Two Tongues / Ang Panalangin ng Dalawang Dila
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Ikaw ang laging nasa isip ko,
    ang unang naiisip sa umaga,
    ang huling panalangin bago ako matulog.

    You rise with my waking mind,
    a prayer I scatter to the stars as night fades,
    a quiet echo I carry through the day.

    Ikaw ang apoy sa aking dugo,
    ang liwanag sa gitna ng dilim,
    ang yakap na sa panaginip ko lamang naaabot.

    You are the flame that stirs my distant veins,
    a glow that threads through shadows I cannot chase,
    an embrace that lingers only in the folds of my dreams.

    Ikaw ang tula ng aking kaluluwa,
    ang lihim na nakaukit sa aking puso,
    ang pangalan na inuukit ng hangin para sa’yo.

    You are the verse my soul hums quietly,
    the secret carved where no one else may wander,
    the name the wind sketches softly toward you.

    At kung ako’y mawala sa dilim,
    tanging sa iyo ako maghahanap,
    tanging sa iyo ang aking walang hanggan.

    If shadows pull me under,
    it is only your light I seek,
    only you hold the map to my eternity across the distance.

    The Prayer of Two Tongues / Ang Panalangin ng Dalawang Dila
    (Translated)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You are always on my mind,
    the first thought in the morning,
    the last prayer before I go to sleep.

    You rise with my waking mind,
    a prayer I scatter to the stars as night fades,
    a quiet echo I carry through the day.

    You are the fire in my blood,
    the light in the midst of darkness,
    the embrace that I can only reach in my dreams.

    You are the flame that stirs my distant veins,
    a glow that threads through shadows I cannot chase,
    an embrace that lingers only in the folds of my dreams.

    You are the poem of my soul,
    the secret carved into my heart,
    the name the wind carves for you.

    You are the verse my soul hums quietly,
    the secret carved where no one else may wander,
    the name the wind sketches softly toward you.

    And if I am lost in the darkness,
    it is only you I will seek,
    only you hold my eternity.

    If shadows pull me under,
    it is only your light I seek,
    only you hold the map to my eternity across the distance.

    💫 If this poem spoke to you, you may find resonance in these other writings:

    The Glue That Binds – Bilingual Poetry by Rowan Evans — A bilingual love poem in English and Tagalog, exploring the binding power of words, connection, and the beauty of love across language.

    Threads of Home I Never Touched: My Journey Through Asia’s Cultures and Music — How Asia’s languages, cultures, and music have shaped my life and my poetry over the last twenty years.

    Prayers for the Philippines: Standing in Solidarity After Typhoon Tragedy — A plain-spoken reflection of grief and solidarity for a nation that holds a piece of my heart.

    Philippines Earthquake Relief: Standing in Solidarity from Afar — Reflections and resources for helping communities facing disaster, written with love and urgency.

  • Manila Time – A Love Letter Across Timezones | Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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.

    Illustration of long-distance lovers connected by a glowing thread across a world map, symbolizing emotional connection across timezones.
    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.

    Read Next (Suggestions)

    [The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor]
    [Hex & Flame: Mirror of Shadows]
    [Even Still, You Are (My Muse)]
    [Litany & Tongue: A Devotional Duet]

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here].

    NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…