This piece is a quiet confession—half shadow, half devotion. In In Her Light, I explore what it means to exist in the spaces someone else illuminates, to be tethered to their glow without asking for it, to guard what they give freely. Sometimes devotion is loud, sometimes it’s invisible; this is the latter, folded into every heartbeat and breath.
— B.D. Nightshade
“Existing in her light, a shadow of devotion and quiet confession.”
In Her Light Poetry by B.D. Nightshade
She’s the light,
I’m the shadow she casts.
I’ve always known my place—
not in the center,
not demanding attention,
just here, steady, waiting.
Every laugh she lets loose
echoes against the walls of me.
Every glance she doesn’t notice
leaves fingerprints on my chest.
I’m the quiet behind her flare,
the pulse she doesn’t feel,
but the one that steadies her steps
when the world threatens to wobble.
She doesn’t need me to shine—
but I need her light.
And if the only way to keep it safe
is to linger unseen,
then unseen I remain.
I memorize the way she breathes,
how her shadow bends against the floor,
the subtle tremble in her hands
when she’s trying not to break.
I’ve built invisible walls around her glow,
stone by stone, heartbeat by heartbeat,
so no one steals what she gives freely,
so no one dims what she can’t contain.
And still, I ache.
I ache to be more than a sentinel,
to be the warmth that touches her skin,
to be seen by her, truly.
But for now, I exist in the quiet,
folded into corners she never notices,
a whisper of devotion
she feels only when danger passes,
when chaos recedes,
when the world bows down
and leaves her whole.
I am her shadow,
but even shadows have edges.
I will guard her light,
even from myself.
Where the Ocean Dreams & Where the Dream Took Us | Double-Feature by Rowan Evans
“Dreams of love and longing: Where the Ocean Dreams & Where the Dream Took Us, a double-feature of poetry by Rowan Evans.”
🌊 Author’s Note
Where the Ocean Dreams came from a dream that felt more like a visitation than a vision—an intimate moment between souls suspended somewhere between waking and eternity. It’s a poem about love that speaks in multiple languages, not just through words, but through trust, fear, and the quiet courage to hope again.
The ocean here is both witness and mirror—reflecting two hearts learning to believe in tenderness after the wreckage of past storms. It’s a story of love as rebirth, of vulnerability as strength, of finding the divine in human connection.
This piece continues my exploration of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism, where love and faith intertwine with the spectral and sacred. Dreams, language, and devotion converge here—not as fantasy, but as truth dressed in salt and moonlight.
Where the Ocean Dreams Short Poetic Story by Rowan Evans
The sea sighed against the waiting shore, its breath cool and endless, curling around my bare feet before slipping away again— a heartbeat, a memory, a whispered promise.
The world was bathed in a blue hush, a soft exhale stitched with secrets, and I listened, not for answers, but for the songs folded into every wave, for the words the earth had never dared to speak aloud.
Behind me, her voice rose— gentle as mist, sure as the tide— and the world shifted.
I turned, slowly, as though waking from a thousand-year dream, and there she was— My Muse— woven of light and longing, smiling with the tenderness of all the summers I had never lived.
My heart moved before my body did, drawing me to her in a single, breathless moment. Our hands found each other— a touch that asked for nothing and gave everything.
I spoke the truths I had carried for what felt like forever: that I would wait, that I would be the shore for her storms, the steady hand, the quiet shelter.
Lowering my gaze, then lifting it again— trembling, open, unafraid— meeting the ink-filled oceans of her eyes, I whispered into the salt-kissed silence:
“Mahal kita, palagi.” I love you. Always.
Her lips parted— the beginnings of a reply blooming there, warm as sunlight after rain— but she hesitated, the words hung in her throat, then, her lips parted again.
At first, no words came— only the shimmer of tears rising in her eyes, brimming until they overflowed, carving rivers down her cheeks.
Her hand trembled in mine, not with fear, but with the weight of a heart long kept hidden, long guarded.
“I’m scared,” she whispered— so raw, so real— her voice cracking like a shell split open by the tide.
“I don’t know how to trust this… but I want to. I want to believe you— believe in you.”
Her fingers tightened around mine, clutching, anchoring, as though afraid I might vanish with the next breath.
“I’ve been broken so many times,” she said, the words spilling now, “and every time, I told myself never again. Never again.”
Her voice faltered— then steadied, fierce in its trembling.
“But you… you make me want to try. You make me want to hope again.”
I saw it then— the battle waging in her, the courage it took just to stand there with me.
Tears blurred my vision too, but I held her gaze, held her heart as gently as I could.
She stepped closer, so close I could feel the storm inside her, and in a voice cracked with grief, strength, and something achingly new, she said it—
“Mahal din kita,” she breathed. “I love you, too.”
And the ocean roared its approval, its waves thundering like a heartbeat, like a promise kept.
There, where the world breathed in salt and stars, two hearts found each other— fragile, fearless, whole.
🌙 Bridging Note
These two pieces are born of dreams, experienced on back-to-back nights. The first, Where the Ocean Dreams, unfolded as a quiet, tender reverie—an emotional awakening, where connection and trust whispered like the tide. The very next night, Where the Dream Took Us arrived, carrying that same heart forward, immersing it in desire, intimacy, and the full weight of longing made tangible.
Together, they form a continuum of a single emotional journey: from the soft, luminous stirrings of love to the fierce, breathless affirmation of it, each dream illuminating a different facet of devotion.
🕯️ Author’s Note
Where the Dream Took Us was born from a dream that lingered long after waking—one of those rare visions where desire and devotion blur until they’re indistinguishable. It’s a confession written from that in‑between space, where the spiritual and the sensual intertwine.
This isn’t a poem about physicality alone; it’s about intimacy as revelation—about being seen, known, and adored in ways that transcend the waking world. Even in the dream, there was love, reverence, and quiet recognition: a soul remembering another through touch.
As with much of my work, this piece belongs to the canon of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism, where vulnerability becomes sacred and longing is its own form of prayer.
⚠️ Content Warning
Where the Dream Took Us contains explicit sexual content and intimate themes. Reader discretion is advised.
Where the Dream Took Us Poetry by Rowan Evans
We were borrowed warmth in an unfamiliar place, a quiet Air BNB where the lights were dim but every part of you was glowing— in laughter, in glances, in the way you leaned a little closer with each sip, each word.
Your voice curled around me like smoke and silk, and every time your hand brushed mine, a storm stirred beneath my skin. You tilted your head, smiled that smile— the one that crumbles my guard— and suddenly, space didn’t exist.
Our lips met—soft, slow, a breathless yes hidden inside a kiss. You tasted like longing and maybe, like all the things we never said but always felt.
Your fingers found the edge of my shirt, tugging gently as if asking permission I would give a thousand times over. When it slid from my shoulders, your nails traced fire over bare skin, and I shivered under the weight of your gaze, drunk not on the wine, but on you.
We moved like poetry, in soft lines and tender metaphors— me guiding you gently to the bed, your back arched just slightly as I kissed your neck, whispering love into the places where heartbreak once lived.
I told you I loved you— not out of desperation, but devotion. Because even in dreams, your presence feels like destiny, like a truth I was always meant to know.
You helped me undress you, hands trembling just enough to say this mattered, that this wasn’t fantasy but something deeper wearing the skin of a dream.
When I kissed your stomach, your breath hitched— music I wanted to memorize. You lifted your hips with quiet need, and I shed your last piece of armor, settling between your thighs like this was where I was always meant to be.
You gasped my name like prayer and wildfire, fingers laced in my hair as I worshipped every inch of you— not to prove myself, but to remind you of what it means to be adored.
And when I woke— sheets cold, heart aching— I held the dream like a promise: that even if only in sleep, I touched the stars that wear your name.
If you’ve made it this far and want to read more of my poetry, you can find it [here]in the The Library of Ashes.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 