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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: longing

  • Same Sky – A Poem About Distance, Longing, and Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Same Sky sits in the space between distance and closeness.

    It’s about the kind of connection that feels real, even when it isn’t physically present. The kind that inspires growth, while also bringing fear to the surface.

    There’s a vulnerability in wanting someone–not just near you, but in your world. In admitting that their presence matters, even without defining what that presence is.

    At its core, this piece isn’t about certainty.

    It’s about longing.

    The quiet, persistent kind–
    that simply wants someone here.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people far apart looking up at the same star-filled sky, symbolizing longing and connection
    Different places. Same sky.

    Same Sky
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Don’t take it personally,
    when I retreat—
    disappear inside of me.
    I’m reflecting—
    is this something
    I need protecting from?

    These feelings
    that I’m feeling,
    they scare me.

    It’s terrifying,
    sometimes—
    the way you
    make me feel.

    The way I want to change myself,
    not because you asked me to—
    because you inspire me,
    to be better than I was
    the day before.

    So I look to the heavens
    with feet planted,
    connected to the surface
    of the planet.
    Feet, the roots,
    grounding me.

    Even if I don’t feel
    rooted to the ground
    beneath.

    Eyes on the stars,
    mapping scars
    traced from afar.

    Ocean’s edge,
    is the reminder
    of the—

    Through the waves,
    I’d swim.

    I’d leave behind
    my life and everything
    I’ve ever known.

    It’s an internal insistence,
    to close the distance.
    A longing to stand under
    the same stars,
    in the same sky
    on the same night.

    To be able to look over,
    to know you’re near.
    Friend or more,
    I don’t care.

    I just…

    I want you there.

    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.

    [Same Room (Emotionally)] (3/22)

    Can you miss someone you’ve never met? This poem explores emotional connection beyond physical distance and what it means to truly feel seen.

    [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.

    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]

  • I’ll Keep Living (Moving Toward You) – A Poem About Choosing Love Without Losing Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is my rejection of dramatic love and my acceptance of intentional love.

    It’s easy to romanticize sacrifice. It’s harder—and far more meaningful—to choose presence. To choose consistency. To choose to live well and grow, not out of obligation, but because someone inspires you to.

    This isn’t about burning out for someone.
    It’s about moving toward them. Slowly.
    Intentionally. Alive.

    — Rowan Evans

    A moth hovering near a warm glowing lantern at dusk against a dark blue background.
    Not a promise to burn—
    a promise to move closer, alive.

    I’ll Keep Living (Moving Toward You)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I won’t say I’d die for you,
    that’s cliché,
    but what I will say is—
    I’ll keep living for you.
    I’ll keep being there for you.
    I’ll keep moving toward you.

    Don’t know what it is,
    but I’m drawn to you—
    pulled by something soft,
    something I can’t name.

    I’m just a moth, I guess—
    and you’re the flame,
    I don’t want tamed.
    I want to softly dance in your glow.

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

  • Just Visiting – A Poem About Not Feeling at Home

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve written around this feeling for years — in metaphors, in longing, in coded language about distance and departure.

    This is the first time I’ve said it this plainly.

    For most of my life, I’ve felt like a visitor in the place I was born. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a rebellious way. Just in a quiet, persistent way that never left.

    This piece isn’t about anger. It isn’t about rejection.

    It’s about finally naming what I’ve always known—
    that sometimes “home” is assigned to you,
    and sometimes it’s something you’re still moving toward.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone traveler standing in an airport terminal at dusk, looking out at distant city lights with a suitcase beside them.
    Sometimes the place you’re born isn’t the place you’re meant to stay.

    Just Visiting
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been talking about it a lot lately,
    this feeling of wanting to escape
    that I’ve had since I was just a baby.
    I was forced to call this place home,
    because this is where I was born—
    it never felt like home,
    just a place I was visiting.

    Every day in school—
    I’d recite the pledge,
    like a good
    little patriot
    should.
    But I didn’t believe in it,
    there was no allegiance in it.

    They say they’re proud to be an American,
    well me? I’ve never been,
    because this is just a place to me.
    I’ve said it before, once in this poem alone—
    this place has never been my home.

    And I’ve lived all across it.
    Never once have I have felt planted,
    no roots took hold.
    Felt like a tourist—
    in a place I was
    supposed to belong.

    But I’ve known for a while now,
    my place is not within these borders.
    This place will never be
    home for me.
    But it will always be
    a part of me. (Sadly.)

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

  • Distant Shores | A Poem About Longing, Growth, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from a recurring dream and a familiar pull — the quiet urge to move toward something that feels meaningful, even if the destination isn’t fully defined yet. It isn’t about a place so much as the feeling of possibility, of momentum returning, of wanting to grow into someone worthy of the journey ahead.

    Some shores are literal.
    Some are emotional.
    Some only exist because someone made you believe they might.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure standing on a quiet shoreline at dawn, looking out toward distant waves and a glowing horizon.
    Some journeys begin long before you ever leave—when the shore starts calling you back to yourself.

    Distant Shores
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s kind of wild how,
    you’ve been in my dreams
    for a while now.

    You’re always radiant as ever,
    you look like heaven—but better.
    You inspire every poem, word and letter,
    I write them with love, respect and care.
    If I could, I would always be there—

    I swear
    I will cross oceans,
    whether I catch a jet,
    swim or stowaway.
    I swear
    I will cross these waves,
    and we will walk the same shore
    some day.
    I swear—

    You make me, want to be
    a better me.
    To strive for more,
    instead of giving up
    like I had before.
    I had allowed myself
    to become trapped,
    inside the borders
    of my mind and
    country.

    You added fuel to a fire
    that had been silently burning.
    Right there, inside my chest.
    The embers smoldered in silence,
    until you, and the fire reignited—
    and now it roars.

    Once again, I dream of walking
    distant shores. But now…
    Now, I want them to be…

    Yours.

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

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Toward Somewhere I Can Breathe]
    A poem about feeling disconnected since fourteen, longing for somewhere that feels like home, and finally understanding that the journey isn’t about escape — it’s about alignment.

    [Disconnected Since Fourteen]
    A confessional poem about growing up disconnected—from place, from home, from belonging—and the quiet realization that the signal was never stable to begin with.

    [Still Tilting Elsewhere]
    A reflection on growing up with a compass that never pointed home—tracing the quiet rebellion of longing, the patience of dreams, and the feeling of always being angled toward somewhere else.

  • Toward Somewhere I Can Breathe | A Poem About Longing, Disconnection & Finding Home

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is about a feeling I’ve struggled to name for most of my life — a feeling that I have tried to explain more recently — a quiet but persistent disconnect that began when I was fourteen.

    It isn’t about hating where I’m from.
    It isn’t about romanticizing somewhere else.

    It’s about that internal shift — the moment you realize you feel unrooted in a place where everyone else seems firmly planted.

    For years, I thought I was running away.
    Now I understand I’ve been moving toward something.

    Whether that “home” is a city, a country, a person, or a version of myself I haven’t fully stepped into yet — I don’t know.

    But I know this:
    I am not lost anymore.
    I am in motion.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure looking toward a distant city skyline under a star-filled night sky, symbolizing longing and the search for home.
    Sometimes home isn’t where you started. Sometimes it’s where you finally breathe.

    Toward Somewhere I Can Breathe
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve tried my whole life
    to explain it.
    This disconnect,
    I’ve felt since
    2004.

    How can I make it
    any more clear?
    I just don’t belong here.

    I’m going to try
    and try to make it
    make sense.
    I was fourteen,
    Hi Hi Puffy AmiYumi
    on the screen.

    But that’s not the important part.

    Inside—
    I could feel
    threads fray,
    and they
    already existed
    in decay.

    But I learned quickly,
    in 2007 exactly—
    there is Filth in the Beauty,
    and the reverse
    can be the same.

    That’s when
    my view of the
    world changed,
    and became
    cemented.

    Something shifted,
    vision cleared—
    and everything
    I missed before,
    just appeared.

    Where everyone
    around me,
    seemed rooted
    in the here.

    And I—
    would close my eyes,
    and wish upon
    shooting stars.
    I wanted out,
    I wanted to leave,
    go somewhere far.

    I knew it would take time,
    I needed things to align.
    But now I know
    what I’m moving toward,
    what I’m working for.

    I’m moving toward home.
    A place, where I belong.

    Maybe when I finally leave,
    I’ll touch down in the Philippines
    to walk Manila’s streets,
    and finally be able to breathe.

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

  • Disconnected Since Fourteen | Poetry About Belonging & Displacement

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem traces the moment when disconnection stopped being temporary and started feeling structural.
    At fourteen, I didn’t just feel out of place—I felt offline. Like my signal never quite reached the world I was standing in.

    The language of technology felt like the closest mirror for that experience: dropped signals, endless queues, systems that never respond. This isn’t nostalgia, and it isn’t blame—it’s recognition. Naming the feeling that followed me for years before I understood what it was.

    Some people search for belonging.
    Some of us search for a connection that was never stable to begin with.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person sitting alone in a dark room with glowing cables and signal symbols, representing emotional disconnection and longing for belonging.
    Some disconnections start early—and never fully resolve.

    Disconnected Since Fourteen
    (Lost in Queue)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I used to sit alone, lost in thoughts
    of far off places—far from…
    home.

    I’d write about every one,
    write about them in my…
    poems.

    The way longing bled into art,
    art bled the words from my heart.
    It was the truth spilling—
    feeling homeless,
    since I was fourteen.

    Felt disconnected,
    like the Wi-Fi dropped.
    Mind static, dramatic,
    screaming like…
    dial-up.

    Trying to connect
    to somewhere that never answers.
    Server overloaded,
    lost in queue—
    endless, connection loop.

    I do not belong here.
    Everything feels wrong here.

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

  • Moth — A Poem About Cyclical Attraction and Desire

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is about attraction as a cycle —
    how some things draw us back, even when we know the cost.
    The ending is the beginning.

    A moth hovering near a candle flame in the dark, symbolizing cyclical attraction and desire.
    The ending is the beginning.

    Moth
    Poetry by HxNightshade

    drawn to your flame.
    Burn me up
    with your love—
    watch me ascend,
    begin again.

    It’s a loop—
    time twisting in
    on itself.
    I feel like I’ve
    lived this before.

    I’m just a moth…

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

  • Still Tilting Elsewhere | A Poem About Leaving, Longing, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some people grow up knowing exactly where they belong.
    Others grow up carrying a quiet sense of elsewhere—something felt long before it’s understood.

    This piece traces that feeling as it moved through me over time: the early moments of disconnection, the private planning, the slow patience of a dream that never burned out. It isn’t about leaving a place as much as it is about realizing that orientation matters more than arrival.

    Not all rebellions are loud.
    Some of them are lived quietly, for years, while you learn how to wait without letting the dream die.

    A person standing at dusk, facing a distant horizon with a compass motif in the sky, symbolizing longing and the pull toward somewhere else.
    Some dreams don’t disappear.
    They learn how to wait.

    Still Tilting Elsewhere
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I find myself
    drifting through my thoughts,
    not lost this time.

    I remember fourteen.
    Hi Hi Puffy—
    Ami and Yumi on the screen,
    seeing Tokyo streets,
    thinking “I hate this place.”
    It was the first time
    I felt the disconnect.

    Suddenly,
    I was hyperaware—
    I didn’t belong here.

    I remember fifteen.
    The first time
    I started planning.
    The first time
    I dreamed of jet engines,
    of taking off,
    making escape.

    I remember sixteen.
    Started speaking,
    manifesting—
    wishing it into existence.
    I remember seventeen,
    when my dream,
    became a quiet rebellion.

    And I was
    only becoming
    more aware,
    I didn’t belong here.

    I remember eighteen.
    Applying for a job,
    I knew I wouldn’t get.
    Simply for the chance to split.
    It was more about the “what if’s,”
    what if they saw something—
    what if they took a chance?

    And then—
    found family
    from the Philippines.
    Two girls of thirteen,
    they became like nieces to me.
    They were the spark
    that stoked the ember,
    that would simmer
    just beneath the surface.

    It’s been
    eighteen years
    since then.

    Eighteen years,
    and the ember never cooled.
    It lived in the quiet places—
    behind decisions,
    beneath routines,
    inside every map I drew
    that didn’t include here.

    And the dream didn’t fade.
    It learned patience.
    It learned silence.
    It learned to wait
    without dying.

    Now,
    I feel the shift again—
    the same quiet pull,
    the same soft rebellion,
    older now,
    but no less certain.

    I still carry that fourteen-year-old
    like a compass in my chest.
    I carry that seventeen-year-old
    like a promise I haven’t kept yet.
    I’ve grown,
    but the compass never changed.
    Every version of me
    still tilts toward somewhere…
    else.

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

  • The Thread That Led Me Home | A Poem About Memory, Fog, and Finding Your Way Back

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’d been stuck in my head for days—looping memories, fogged thoughts, the usual spiral.

    Then I had a dream.

    In it, someone I care deeply about cut through the noise in the bluntest, most effective way possible. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t poetic. But it worked.

    This poem came from that moment—the realization that sometimes the way forward isn’t overthinking, but following the one thread that still feels steady.

    Even through the fog.

    A glowing thread leads through foggy woods toward a softly lit clearing at night, symbolizing guidance and emotional connection.
    Sometimes the way out of your head is just one honest thread—and the courage to follow it.

    The Thread That Led Me Home
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The fog rolls over hills,
    and a chill clings
    to my mind.
    Memories linger
    in flickering fragments,
    clinging static—
    the kind that hums
    behind the eyes,
    buzzing with moments
    I thought I buried
    but never really left.

    They circle back—
    whispers caught
    between stations,
    half-formed voices
    I almost recognize
    but can’t quiet name.
    Threads of memory
    tangled in the mist,
    pulling me back
    to places
    I never meant to revisit.

    I stumble through playgrounds,
    bumping off walls
    as I march down the hall.
    A single thread,
    I’ve begun to follow—
    It leads through memory,
    after memory.
    Twisting and turning,
    it knots—
    and I pause,
    fingers trembling
    over the tangle,
    wondering what unravels
    if I pull too hard.

    I run fingers
    over threads.
    Gripping soft,
    pulling slow—
    I watch
    as the string
    slips free—
    and it hums,
    like it’s guiding me.

    So I follow.

    Step after step,
    one foot
    in front
    of the other.
    I step and stumble
    through fog,
    thick as my thoughts.
    And when
    I feel lost,
    my fingers tighten
    grabbing the string
    like a lifeline.
    It’s the only guide
    through my mind.

    I stumble through,
    snapping twigs
    and branches.
    The rustle of
    rotting leaves
    under feet,
    until I see it.
    A light,
    a clearing.
    And when I reach it,
    when I find
    the strings conclusion—
    what do I see?

    You.
    A smile.
    Home.

    Closing Note

    Yesterday’s poem was about the weight of memory. This one is about the moment something — or someone — breaks through that weight. Not to fix it, not to erase it, but to remind me that I don’t have to walk through the fog alone.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Memory Lane Has No Exit]
    With my birthday approaching, I found myself trapped inside my mind—wandering memory lane, revisiting love, loss, and the moments that built me. This poem is a reflection on betrayal, survival, and the quiet realization that drifting isn’t the same as healing.

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