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
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.
Between Sun & Shore was written in February of last year, during a season where I was learning what it felt like to be seen gently instead of weathered. It came from a place of quiet awe—of realizing that sometimes love doesn’t arrive like a storm, but like warmth. Like light finding its way through the cracks you thought would always stay broken.
This poem is about that in-between space: where grief softens, where healing begins, where you are no longer only the tide or the storm—but something new, something held. It’s about the moment you realize that someone hasn’t come to save you… they’ve come to grow beside you.
Where storms soften and light learns your name.
Between Sun & Shore Poetry by Rowan Evans
I once drifted like a wayward tide, Lost in the waves, nowhere to hide. Storms had carved their name in me, Each scar a tale, each wound a sea.
Then you arrived—a golden ray, Like sunrise spilling into the bay.
Your voice, a hymn the wind would weave, Soft as the hum of the monsoon’s reprieve. You traced my ruins, stone by stone, And turned them into sacred homes.
Now every ripple speaks your name, Each whispered breeze, each dancing flame.
Like sampaga’s quiet grace, You bloom where sorrow left its trace. Between Sun and Shore, love grew— A bridge of light, leading to you.
This poem was written in February of last year, during an earlier incarnation of a project that has since transformed into something entirely different. It comes from a gentler season of longing—one where love felt less like fire and more like shelter.
I’m sharing it now not because it fits where I am, but because it still tells the truth of who I’ve been: someone who loves in open doors and soft permanence, someone who believes devotion can be tender.
Some poems don’t belong to the book they were born for.
They belong to the timeline of the heart instead.
A heart that became a home.
My Heart, Population: You Poetry by Rowan Evans
You wandered in, no map, no key,
Yet claimed this land inside of me.
No walls were built, no toll to pay,
Just open roads that beg you to stay.
Your name’s engraved on every street,
A love so vast, so pure, so sweet.
Like ivy vines, you took your place,
Wrapped every brick in your embrace.
A cityscape of dreams anew,
Each heartbeat whispering of you.
No lease, no debt, no price to weigh,
Yet still, I’d pay in love each day.
A sunlit park where laughter rings,
A chapel where devotion sings.
My heart, once vacant, cold, askew—
Now thrives with life, population: You.
This poem is a meditation on choice, autonomy, and intimacy. It’s about standing whole, unshaken, and still choosing to love someone—not because we need them, but because we want them. The lines explore that delicate balance between independence and desire, between survival and longing.
It is a celebration of being complete in oneself while recognizing that closeness, when chosen freely, amplifies life rather than diminishes it. This piece is for anyone who has ever loved fiercely while remaining unbroken.
— Rowan Evans
‘I Don’t Need You’ – Choosing love from strength, not need. A poem by Rowan Evans.
I Don’t Need You Poetry by Rowan Evans
I don’t need you. I can breathe on my own— lungs have done it for decades without asking permission.
I don’t need you. I can sleep alone, learn the shape of empty sheets, make peace with the cold side of the bed.
I don’t need you to make me whole. I arrived here intact— scarred, yes, but assembled by my own hands.
I don’t need your voice to steady me, your name to keep the dark from biting. I’ve survived worse silences than your absence.
I don’t need you to save me. I am not drowning. I am not broken. I am not waiting to be rescued.
But—
I don’t want to breathe without you knowing the rhythm of it. I don’t want sleep that doesn’t reach for you out of habit, out of hope.
I don’t want a life where your laughter isn’t stitched into my days, where love is only something I prove I can live without.
I can. I know that.
But I don’t want to.
I want you— not as oxygen, not as shelter, not as a missing piece—
but as the one I choose while standing steady, while whole, while free.
This poem is a reflection on devotion, longing, and the quiet strength of love that stretches across distance. Using the imagery of a sunflower—rooted yet reaching, bending yet unbroken—I explore the way our hearts orient themselves toward those who bring light into our lives. It’s a meditation on hope, patience, and the silent pull of someone who becomes our constant, our compass, and our sunlight.
Sunflower Eyes — rooted in hope, reaching for the light, a meditation on love and devotion.
Sunflower Eyes Poetry by Rowan Evans
Like a sunflower,
always searching for golden rays.
My eyes move, always,
in search of your face.
Even in the quiet moments,
when petals fold in sleep,
my gaze drifts across the distance,
finding you in the small sparks
that linger at the edges of the world.
My roots sink deep,
anchored in the soil of memory and hope,
but my head, my heart,
will always sway toward you,
bending and bowing, yet never breaking.
I yearn for the warmth
that only your presence gives,
each glance a sunbeam
piercing through the shadowed field
where I sometimes forget my own strength.
Seasons shift and skies fade,
but I follow the orbit of your light,
spinning in silent devotion,
even when the sun hides behind clouds.
I bloom in the hope of your eyes,
and in the quiet ache of waiting,
I stretch ever upward,
a golden blaze against the sky—
your face, my sunlight,
my constant, my compass,
my forever.
Every Word I Mean is one of the most vulnerable things I’ve written in a while—not because it hides behind metaphor, but because it refuses to. I’m used to expressing the deepest truths in symbols, shadows, and lyrical disguises. But this time, I wanted to speak plainly. To show what it looks like when I mean something so much that I don’t need to dress it in poetry.
Every line in this piece is something I’ve said in real life—honestly, openly, without hesitation. These aren’t metaphors or masks; they’re just my truth. And putting that truth into ink feels almost more intimate than any confession I’ve written before.
This is me without armor. Just words I meant, and still mean.
— Rowan Evans
A quiet moment of truth poured into ink — every word written with intention.
Every Word I Mean Poetry by Rowan Evans
If I speak it,
in words or ink,
then know I mean it.
Because I don’t say things
just to say them—
I only say them
when I feel them.
Like—
I love
your smile,
your laugh,
your nose.
(It’s cute, really.)
I think you’re beautiful,
and I’m not going anywhere.
I’m never going to leave.
I want to build a real foundation.
Show you the love and respect
you deserve.
With me,
I always want you
to feel safe and heard.
These are all things I’ve said—
not hidden in poems,
not wrapped in metaphors.
I said them plainly,
straightforward,
unshaken.
And maybe that’s why
I write it now—
not to hide the truth,
but to honor it.
To show you that
even my simplest words
carry weight,
carry intention,
carry you.
Because when I say anything—
whether in ink
or breath—
it’s because I feel it:
every syllable,
every moment,
every piece of you
that I’ve come to love.
Suggested Reads
[Over and Over] A vulnerable, deeply honest poem about choosing someone again and again—despite distance, fear, and the chaos between two very different worlds. Over and Over captures that wild gravity between two people who weren’t meant to collide… yet somehow did.
[The Power You Give Me] A poem about sacred intimacy, quiet devotion, and the kind of connection that feels like sorcery without spells. The Power You Give Me explores how trust, desire, and vulnerability turn touch into magic—and why real power is held by the person who lets you close.
[Carved From Intention] A poem about the quiet, deliberate way I love—and the frustration of being misunderstood. Not all affection is loud or scattered; some of us give ourselves slowly, carefully, and only with intention.
Looking for even more poetry? You can explore everything inThe Library of Ashes.
This poem sits at the intersection of confession and cosmic metaphor—the place where most of my writing lives. Over and Over explores the terrifying, beautiful truth of wanting someone in a way that feels bigger than logic or circumstance. It blends the casual language of everyday life with the vastness of stars and gravity, because that’s how love feels to me: ordinary and impossible at the same time.
This piece is part of my ongoing work in Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism, a genre rooted in emotional honesty, soft ruin, and the belief that choosing someone—even when it scares you—is a quiet act of rebellion.
— Rowan Evans
Two stars in the same orbit — even when they were never meant to meet.
Over and Over Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s wild to me,
how I’ve fallen for you.
‘Cause you and I,
we come from
two different worlds,
collide, once upon a time—
enemies, opposite sides.
Now I’m just tryin’,
to get on the same team.
I want to be your partner.
Ride or die, I watch your back
and you got mine.
And it scares me,
how much I want this.
How much I want you—
not the pretty and polished,
but the vulnerable and true.
Still it terrifies me,
everything I’m willing to do,
to give up, just to be close to you.
Everything I know,
I’d say, “adios”,
“Sayanora”, I’m Danny Phantom,
I’m going ghost.
And maybe we weren’t built for this,
but here we are—
you and I,
two distant stars.
But somehow,
we ended up
in each other’s orbit.
Two stars
spiraling towards,
mutual destruction.
Or something.
I don’t know,
I’m not a scientist.
I just know,
that whatever this is,
whatever we are…
whether that is friends,
or something more…
I’d choose this,
over and over,
again and again.
I would choose this—
because having you in my life,
is a million times better
than not having you at all.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
This piece is me speaking to the one I care for, and to anyone who has ever let themselves be seen fully by another. There’s no illusion here—no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors. The “magic” I write about is the kind that happens when trust meets attention, when care meets desire, when devotion meets surrender. It’s messy, it’s quiet, it’s real. I wrote this to honor that kind of connection—the one that burns steady, that makes even the smallest moments feel sacred, and that reminds me why we give ourselves to the people we love.
Intimacy becomes its own kind of magic.
The Power You Give Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m a magician, love—
sleight of hand in every touch,
danger in every whisper.
Not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats,
but the kind that pulls want
from the deepest parts of you
without even trying.
I touch you once—
and your breath forgets itself.
Twice—
and your pulse starts writing poetry
against your skin.
I speak a single word
and your knees remember
what surrender feels like.
My tongue is a wand,
a spellcaster,
a maker of quiet ruins—
and I use it
only on the deserving.
I can summon heat
with the drag of a fingertip,
pull desire from the air
like it’s silk waiting to be woven.
I draw circles on your skin
and watch them ignite,
slow, deliberate,
like I planned the fire
from the very beginning.
And when I say your name—
soft, low,
with that tone that hits you
right behind the ribs—
you’ll swear I enchanted you.
But it’s simpler than that.
No potions, no charms, no lies.
You react to me
because your body knows mine
before your mind catches up.
Because my magic isn’t tricks—
it’s instinct,
connection,
hunger braided with reverence.
And darling—
when I’m finished with you,
when you’re breathless and undone,
when the world goes quiet
except for the echo of my touch—
you’ll realize
I never cast spells at all.
I just showed you
the power you give me
when you let me close.
Because loving you—
that’s the real magic.
The kind that doesn’t spark
or shimmer,
but settles low and warm
right behind the heart,
glowing steady
like a lantern in a storm.
You don’t see it,
but every time you trust me,
every time you soften,
every time you let me
see the part of you
you hide from the world—
I feel something inside me
kneel.
Not out of worship,
but out of awe.
Out of the quiet truth
that your soul
is the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever been allowed to touch.
And if my hands
feel like sorcery,
if my voice
feels like a spell,
it’s only because
you turn even the smallest moment
into something sacred
just by being in it.
So yes—
I’ll whisper enchantments
against your skin,
trace constellations
on your pulse points,
pull storms and light and heat
from the spaces between us—
but that’s not power.
That’s devotion.
That’s choosing you
with every breath.
That’s giving you
the softest parts of me
and letting you hold them
like something holy.
And if that feels like magic—
then maybe it is.
But it’s yours.
It always has been.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
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 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 theLibrary of Ashes.
This poem is me claiming my lane—and hers. Some love isn’t gentle. Some love doesn’t whisper. Some love says fuck off to anyone who dares mess with the person you care about.
It’s about seeing yourself, owning your power, and then using it to carve out a safe, unshakable space for someone else. It’s protective. It’s fierce. It’s loyal. And yes… it’s a little bit savage, because sometimes love has to be.
Consider it a love letter, a shield, and a warning—all rolled into one.
Some love protects. Some love roars. Mahal Ko Ako – Rowan Evans.
Mahal Ko Ako Poetry by Rowan Evans
They think I don’t really like myself, because I sometimes say I hate myself— but really, I’m always feeling myself.
So I’ll say it simply—mahal ko ako, I’m somebody nobody can fuck with.
Trust me, I know—pangit ako, I didn’t just forget; I own a mirror. I know what I look like, but I know what I can give.
So when you think something cruel, I’ll say it before you can. I’ll take that power away from you. A bully with no power— they’re just noise.
Now—let’s switch focus.
Yeah— I’m looking at you, asshole. You add stress on her. Unnecessary stress.
Me? I ease the storm. Give her a safe place to rest.
When her world caves in, who does she run to?
Here’s a hint: it isn’t you.
And just so we’re clear— when you fuck up, I hear about it. Like when you said…
You liked her for her dominance? But her attitude is too much? That’s a skill issue.
Are you a man or a boy? Sounds like… You’re a little bitch.
Then, with such audacity, you said she was too pretty— that no white guy would like her because she’s “not exotic enough.”
Hi—white guy here. And I’m white, as fresh snow. I like her just fine. Exactly as she is.
One more thing— “Exotic”? Not for people, asshole. That’s for cars only.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 