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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: love

  • 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]

  • Every Thought Between – A Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    Sometimes, the mind cannot stop wandering to the one who lingers in your heart. This little reflection captures that quiet, unending presence—the person who inhabits every corner of thought, even in silence.

    — Rowan Evans

    Abstract golden light and blurred shapes representing quiet reflection and lingering thoughts.
    Every thought between—where silence still carries your presence.

    Every Thought Between
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    There is not a moment
    that you do not
    cross my mind.
    You are my first thought,
    and my last—
    and every thought between.

    Even silence
    sounds like you.

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

  • Love Is Choice: A Manifesto on Real, Intentional Love by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    Recently, I’ve seen a lot of people online talking about love—what it is, what it should be and what it feels like. A lot of it makes it sound like love should be a fairytale, or something effortless. I wanted to share my own take: what love really is, from my perspective. This is my manifesto.

    Silhouettes of two people standing side by side, hands nearly touching, bathed in warm sunrise light, representing devotion and choice in love.
    Love is not effortless—it is choice, presence, and devotion, alive in everyday moments.

    Love Is Choice: A Manifesto
    Manifesto by Rowan Evans

    Love is not a fairytale.
    It is not magic, destiny, or some effortless, perfect emotion that simply exists.
    Love is work.
    Love is patience.
    Love is showing up, again and again, even when it is hard, even when it is mundane, even when it is inconvenient.

    Love is choice.
    It is the decision to walk beside someone, to carry their weight with them—not instead of them, but alongside them.
    It is the conscious commitment to witness, honor, and respond to who they are, fully, unedited, and without trying to fix what isn’t broken.

    Love is active.
    It is listening when words are hard to find.
    It is staying present when life shakes everything apart.
    It is forgiving, learning, compromising, and holding space without judgment.

    Love is honest.
    It does not gloss over pain or disappointment.
    It does not pretend every moment is blissful or effortless.
    It sees the darkness, acknowledges it, and chooses to stay.
    It sees the light, celebrates it, and nurtures it.

    Love is courageous.
    It is daring to be vulnerable, to give your heart fully without demanding repayment.
    It is resisting the temptation to escape when the weight is heavy, the storm is loud, or the moment is uncomfortable.
    It is understanding that enduring love is not measured by feeling, but by action.

    Love is sacred.
    It is not about ownership, perfection, or control.
    It is about respect, devotion, and the sacred trust that comes from seeing someone in their entirety and still choosing them.

    Love is worth the ache.
    The effort is not a burden—it is proof of devotion.
    The work is not punishment—it is a labor of care.
    The challenges are not failures—they are the evidence that love is real.

    Love is choice.
    Love is effort.
    Love is presence.
    Love is not a fairytale—but it is extraordinary, transformative, and alive in the everyday, ordinary moments that are shared with intention.

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

  • 131 Days: A Journey Through Words, Fire, and Devotion

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a reflection on persistence, inspiration, and the threads that connect my work over the past year. Each italicized title is a window into the poems that shaped this journey—moments of love, desire, trauma, healing, and devotion.

    At its heart, this is about process as much as outcome: the daily practice of writing, the sparks of muse, and the quiet work done in the late hours when the world is still. It’s also a tribute to those who witness these words—across screens, pages, and hearts—you are part of this ongoing journey too.

    Consider this piece a bridge: between poems, between moments, between the past and the work yet to come.

    A writer’s hands holding a pen over scattered pages of poetry, lit by a warm lamp, evoking quiet inspiration and devotion.
    Late nights, ink-stained fingers, and the quiet companionship of words—where every poem begins.

    131 Days
    (A Journey Through Words, Fire, and Devotion)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been
    so focused—
    over-focused, some say.
    One hundred thirty-one days
    and counting.

    I’ve written with range:
    love, desire, mental health,
    trauma, recovery.
    There’s more, of course,
    but that’s the core.

    I write like
    A Heart Unveiled,
    witnessing the
    Colors of Your Soul.
    My pen
    revealing,
    the Infinity Within.
    As my mind
    drifts free
    in The Hallow Sea.

    My muse,
    my inspiration is—
    A-Woman.
    The vision of beauty,
    an angel on earth—
    a Filipina,
    with fire in her eyes.
    When the world tries
    to put her fire out,
    that is when I
    Cry to the Quiet.
    And why
    I Am
    offering myself
    to her, fully.
    Freely.
    For you see,
    she—
    is Perfectly Imperfect,
    which means…
    she is perfect for me.

    She has shown me,
    that there are
    Timelines Worth Rewriting.
    And your essence,
    I will never forget—
    because
    I Am the Storm That Remembers.

    Late nights, ink-stained fingers,
    the quiet my closest companion.
    For those who witness, across pages and screens,
    you carry a piece of this journey too.
    And still, I write on.

    If you enjoyed this piece and want to check out more of my work, you can click one of the many links scattered throughout the poem itself. They take you to my highest viewed pieces of the year. I am not saying they are my best pieces, just the ones that got the most views. Anyway, you can find more of my work here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • The Smallest Prayer – A Minimalist Poem on Connection by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This is a quiet invocation of connection and hope—a brief, intimate reflection on the beauty of shared moments, even in their smallest form. Sometimes the smallest words carry the deepest meaning.

    Two hands reaching toward each other in a soft, glowing twilight, representing connection and intimacy.
    Even the smallest gestures hold profound meaning.

    The Smallest Prayer
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Thoughts.
    Dreams.

    You and I—

    Us.

    Together.

    Reaching.
    Seeing.

    To read more of my work, find it here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Made for the Burn – Neo-Gothic Confessional Romantic Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Made for the Burn is a meditation on intensity, desire, and the kind of connection that ignites something raw inside us. It’s about falling—not gently, not cautiously—but fully into the heat of someone who challenges, awakens, and reshapes the self. This poem honors the fire in others, but more importantly it honors the fire in my muse, and the courage it takes to sit close to it without fear.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person standing near a blazing fire, their face illuminated by the flames, symbolizing passion, intensity, and the courage to embrace desire.
    “Sitting close to the fire—embracing intensity, desire, and the lessons only heat can teach.“

    Made for the Burn
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I fell for her. No parachute.
    I fell for her for the fire,
    not the soft or the sweet.
    I was made for the burn,
    for every lesson heat could teach.

    She struck the match just by speaking—
    a spark in the dark that lit the fire of my yearning.
    And I never wanted gentle anyway.
    I wanted the blaze that strips you clean,
    the truth that hurts before it heals.

    She lit my shadows softly,
    laughed the fear right out of me.
    I didn’t choose the falling,
    but I chose the way I landed—
    open palms, open heart, unbroken faith.

    But it’s no delusion, I know she’s not mine,
    and it’s fine, ’cause I told her I’m not leaving.
    I’d be damned if I didn’t stay—
    ‘Cause I’m no liar,
    so I sit as close as I can to her fire.

    Feel the warmth brush against my skin,
    it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.
    It’s like a drug coursing through my veins,
    I feel it inside—it’s what she does to me,
    and she does it beautifully,
    without even trying.

    For more of my poems, explore the Library of Ashes—a curated collection of work that dives into desire, darkness, and devotion.

  • I’m Fine – A Neo-Gothic Confessional on Forbidden Love and Jealous Longing

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    I meant it when I said I’m fine with friendship — I truly am. She means too much to me to ever want to lose what we already have. But being fine doesn’t mean the ache isn’t real. It just means I’ve learned how to carry it with grace.

    This poem came from that quiet, conflicted space — the one where truth and longing sit side by side, where I tell myself I’m fine while something deeper trembles just beneath the words. Writing it was my way of admitting both truths at once, even if it makes me feel like a liar for saying I’m okay.

    — Rowan Evans

    A single candle flickers beside an open notebook in dim moonlight, evoking solitude and quiet longing.
    “It doesn’t mean anything — but it means everything.”

    I’m Fine
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I know I’ve said it
    probably a thousand times—
    across a thousand rhymes,

    but she’s
    constantly on my mind,
    constantly…
    like all of the time.

    I’m fine,
    even though
    she’s not mine.

    I promise
    I’m fine.

    No truly,
    I’m fine.
    It’s just,
    she’s with someone—
    and…
    I can feel
    the jealousy.

    It burns
    just beneath
    my ribs.

    It’s there. Right in my chest.
    It’s not a problem,
    it doesn’t mean anything—
    but it means everything.

    She means…
    everything.

    She tells me,
    she’s taught herself not to love.
    The past has taught her,
    not to fall in love.
    And I understand,
    with everything she’s been through.

    It makes sense,
    but still, even not loving—
    she’s with someone else.
    And I know she doesn’t love him,
    but still, it hurts like hell.

    I know I’ve said it
    a thousand times,
    but she’s in me
    like a pulse I cannot turn off.

    Every laugh she lets slip,
    every glance she casts—
    it pricks me like fire.
    It burns just beneath my ribs,
    hot and unrelenting,
    and I clutch at it
    like it’s the only thing I own.

    She doesn’t love him,
    and yet—
    it doesn’t matter.
    The fact remains,
    and it scorches me.

    I am supposed to be fine.
    I am supposed to look away,
    to fold my desire into quiet shadows.
    But I cannot.
    I watch her,
    I feel her,
    I carry the ache
    of every stolen moment
    that will never be mine.

    She has taught herself not to love,
    and I respect that.
    But respect doesn’t heal the hollowness,
    doesn’t stop my hands from trembling,
    doesn’t stop the way my chest tightens
    when I see her smile.

    I want her.
    Not just her attention,
    not just her words—
    I want the impossible,
    the forbidden,
    the unclaimed part of her
    that she has never given to anyone.

    And I will sit here,
    jealous, frantic, trembling,
    watching her life unfold without me,
    holding every small memory close
    like a talisman, like fire against my skin,
    like love I cannot release.

    And still,
    still, I cannot turn away.
    I cannot stop seeing her,
    cannot stop needing her.
    Because she is everything—
    and I am nothing
    without the impossible hope
    that maybe,
    just maybe,
    she could be mine.

    But really…
    I’m fine.

    It’s fine. I’m fine. And somewhere beneath the ashes, I still mean it.

  • Sonnet of Submission – A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romantic Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    Sonnet of Submission is a tender exploration of trust, surrender, and sacred intimacy. Written in late October 2024, this piece captures the quiet strength found in yielding and the beauty of finding refuge in love.

    Twilight forest with soft light breaking through shadows, a glowing lantern casting ethereal warmth in a romantic, gothic setting.
    A lantern of love guiding the heart through shadows.

    Sonnet of Submission
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (Written October 29th, 2024)

    In twilight’s glow, where shadows softly play,
    I yield my heart, my mind, my very soul,
    To thee, whose touch can chase the night away,
    In your embrace, I find my truest whole.

    With every whispered word, my doubts unwind,
    In tender moments, trust begins to bloom,
    Your love, a lantern, guiding me to find
    A sacred space, where darkness meets its doom.

    I grant you all—my fears, my dreams, my grace,
    In yielding, I discover strength anew;
    For in this bond, I find my rightful place,
    With you, I’m anchored, safe in love so true.

    So take my heart, my spirit, let us soar,
    In sweet submission, I am yours, evermore.

    If you liked this piece, check out more of my work in [The Library of Ashes]!

  • Exhibit of Survival – Reflection on Resilience and Empathy by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece reflects on the quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a world that often tries to harden you. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, empathy, and the enduring capacity to love, even in the face of doubt and adversity.

    This post marks my 83rd consecutive day of sharing on the blog,   I have not missed a day since August 8th… During this time, I have tried to push myself to be a little more open. A little more honest. Even when it’s hard, even when I just want to be closed off from the world…

    Figure sitting on the floor surrounded by pinned papers and threads, illuminated by soft light, representing reflection, resilience, and quiet strength.
    Caught in the threads of life — resilience and reflection hold them in place.

    Exhibit of Survival
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Pins.
    They hold me in place.
    As the glass
    lowers over my face.
    Framed.
    In a frame. On display.
    Like a dead butterfly.

    I have had people in my life who pretended to be on my side—who pretended to care—when really, they just wanted front-row seats to my struggles. They wanted to watch as I unraveled, whispering doubts to freeze me in place, to preserve the ache. To keep me from moving forward. And yet, I still pushed. I still tried.

    Threads.
    Tied to limbs.
    Marionette.
    Puppet on strings.
    They’ve got control of me.
    Free? Not really.

    Those same people tried to talk me out of anything I wanted to do—anything that could bring me closer to the life I wanted. “Why do you want to leave America?” they’d ask. But it’s not my home; it’s just the place I was born. The place I was raised. I’ve never felt like I belong here. Not once.

    Everything holds me back—my brain looping their doubts, my own depression and anxiety echoing them back to me. It’s a war on all fronts. And still, I stand.

    My thoughts.
    They flutter and fade
    in this liminal space.
    It’s pain—
    just to be alive.
    It’s a wonder.
    A miracle.
    How have I survived?

    Resilience. And reminders from the few who truly see me, who truly believe in me. Without them, I might have given up long ago. But because of them, I’ve kept my empathy alive. I’ve refused apathy. I’ve stayed soft. I’ve kept my heart open and given love freely.

    How?
    How have I
    made it to thirty-five?
    Every day I wake up.
    Surprised.

    That surprise isn’t mine anymore. It’s the echo of others’ doubts—ones I no longer answer.

  • The Fear of No Fear at All – A Reflection on Love, Safety, and Vulnerability | Rowan Evans Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This reflection came to me as a kind of whisper — the voice of every anxious soul who has spent years mistaking chaos for connection. The Fear of No Fear at All is not about panic, but about peace — and how frightening peace can be when you’ve learned to survive on the edge of heartbreak.
    It’s about the moment you realize that being seen, truly seen, doesn’t have to hurt.

    Sunlight through sheer curtains, illuminating an open journal and cup of tea on a wooden desk.
    When love finally feels safe, fear becomes the last ghost to leave.

    The Fear of No Fear at All
    Reflection by Rowan Evans

    There’s a kind of fear only the anxious understand—
    not the kind that makes your pulse race,
    but the kind that falls silent when something finally feels right.

    When you’ve spent years waiting for the floor to collapse,
    for love to turn sharp, for tenderness to vanish like smoke,
    peace feels dangerous. Safety feels foreign.
    Your body doesn’t trust the quiet;
    it waits for the crash that never comes.

    And then one day, someone walks in—
    and there is no crash.
    No second-guessing, no masks to hold.
    You find yourself unguarded, unarmed,
    and the absence of panic is the most terrifying thing of all.

    Because what do you do
    when love doesn’t demand that you bleed for it?
    When it asks only for your truth,
    your laughter, your unhidden self?

    That is the fear of no fear at all—
    the trembling realization that maybe,
    after all this time,
    you are finally safe here.

    🕛 Coming at 12:05 am (UTC +8)

    A companion piece — the moment that inspired this realization.
    ✨ The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun) — a vignette of confession, connection, and the beautiful terror of truth.