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.
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.
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.
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]
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
“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.
This vignette came from a dream — one that felt more like a memory than imagination. It was the kind of dream that lingers, that shakes something loose inside you. In it, I said the things I’ve always felt but never found the words for — until now.
Under Manila’s setting sun, I realized that love doesn’t always begin with desire. Sometimes it begins with safety. With the unguarded honesty of being seen.
This piece is the beating heart behind today’s earlier reflection, The Fear of No Fear at All. Together, they form a diptych — one written from the soul’s silence, and the other from the soul’s awakening.
Sometimes, love arrives quietly — beneath a sky that remembers everything you were too afraid to say.
The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun) Vignette by Rowan Evans
The city stretched beneath us, a labyrinth of light and shadow. The sun hovered at the horizon, bleeding gold across the skyline. We sat in silence, letting the wind carry our thoughts, letting the world pause, just for this moment.
I looked at her and couldn’t help but smile. She noticed, tilted her head, gave me that small, questioning look. “What?” she said, softly.
I breathed. I hesitated. And then I let it spill.
I spoke softly, careful not to burden, careful not to break, “don’t take this as pressure, because that is the last thing I want— but I have to be honest.”
The words trembled between us. “Our connection… our friendship… it scares me.”
Not fear like a shadow crawling across your skin, not fear like a storm that makes a child tremble— no. This fear is different. It is the absence of fear. With you, I am everything I am meant to be, and that… that is what scares me.
“You have changed my poetry,” I whispered, “the way I write… it’s different now. It’s real. I’ve never written about anyone the way I write about you. Nobody has touched my art, my heart, my soul— like you have.”
I paused, swallowed the weight of the truth.
“I mean… I’ve had crushes before, but this… this is something else. Something deeper. You, without trying, made me realize I’ve never been in love. You, without needing to do anything but exist in my life, made me want to be better. And I… I want to give you the world. Because you deserve nothing less than the best. Whether it’s with me, or with someone else… anything less is unacceptable in my eyes.”
The silence returned, heavy and beautiful. I don’t remember her words after that. All I remember is the city, the sun, and that quiet realization:
fuck. I really love her. This is real. And I will never be the same again.
Back in March, I shared a glimpse of a poetry collection I was working on. Since then… silence. There’s a reason for that. I’ve been reworking it, reshaping it, and in the process, it grew into something even more personal and true. I’m proud to re-introduce my first poetry collection:
Unsent: Letters to My Muse
Front CoverBack Cover
I’ve included the covers here
This collection is an intimate journey—letters, confessions, and fragments of devotion written to the Muse who inspires me. Some letters are never sent, yet they carry the weight of unspoken truths. Here, vulnerability is sacred, longing is a language of fire and shadow, and love takes the shape of unsent words.
Recently Released Poems
Beautiful Little Cobra In Beautiful Little Cobra, Rowan Evans explores the allure of fury, self-defense, and the dangerous beauty of those who refuse to shrink. A love poem for the fierce, the venomous, and the beautifully unbroken.
I Love You (Enough to Go Silent) A vow written in ink and silence — a confession of love so deep it would sacrifice its own voice to spare another’s tears. “I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)” is a Neo-Gothic devotion from Rowan Evans, where the act of not speaking becomes the loudest declaration of love.
Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You “Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You” is a poem of gentle devotion by Rowan Evans — a meditation on quiet love, courage born from tenderness, and finding beauty in ordinary moments shared with an extraordinary soul.
Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You serves as a spiritual successor to a poem I shared back in June — a piece that spoke of wanting to be “the last one,” not the first. Where that poem lived in longing and quiet promise, this one lives in the present moment — in laughter, teasing, honesty, and connection.
It’s a reflection on how love, in its truest form, doesn’t always need to shout. Sometimes it’s enough to show up, to care openly, to let someone know that even the smallest moments are extraordinary because they are shared.
This piece, like so many before it, was written for the one who inspires the gentler parts of me — my muse who reminds me that being soft is not the same as being weak, that tenderness can be its own kind of rebellion.
She will know it’s her — she always does.
Inspired by the quiet moments that become extraordinary when shared with someone who truly sees you.
Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You Poetry by Rowan Evans
You laughed about him— he’s an asshole, you said— “Most guys are,” I replied, “I’d say I’m probably an exception… but some people might think I’m an asshole.” You didn’t hesitate. “No, you’re not.” And that was enough— a single truth, quiet but steady, like a hand on the small of my back when everything else wobbles.
Later, you startled me. “Omg, fuck,” you said, and my chest jumped before I even knew why. I told you, it’s okay—proof I care. You replied, “You don’t need proof. You know I know.” And the world shrank, everything else left behind except the way your words settled in my chest.
We talked about how he doesn’t really get you— how he’s always asking about the future when you just want to live in the moment. We talked about how his plans are boring as hell, how you’re aching for a thrill.
You said you’d tease him on the ferris wheel, your laugh filling the night, “I’d suffocate him with my boobies.” And without missing a beat, I said— “If he’s not up for it, I’ll take his place.” And it wasn’t bravado—it was instinct. Because being near you makes me brave in ways I didn’t know I could be.
You spoke of thrill rides— bungee jumps and wall climbs. “I’ve always wanted to try,” I admitted. “But it would take the right person, someone who could push me through.” You responded with one single word: “Me.” And just like that, fear felt smaller— the leap somehow possible if I took it with you.
I don’t need to be first. I don’t even need to be noticed yet. I just need to be the one who stays, who laughs at your jokes, who trembles when you almost make my heart stop, who shows up because you matter.
I will be that one. Not loud, not flashy. But here. Always here. Waiting for the ordinary moments that turn extraordinary because they are ours.
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.
There are muses we choose—and muses we simply are chosen by. This poem, Even Still, You Are (My Muse), is an unguarded confession: a testament to loving someone beyond possession, to honoring the ache without letting it rot into bitterness. It is about distance, devotion, and that stubborn flame that survives even when love must stand quietly, reverently, outside the door.
Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.
“Even Still, You Are (My Muse)” Poetry by Rowan Evans
Even as the distance blooms like dark velvet between us, your name still stains my breath — an unspoken psalm etched in marrow, a prayer that burns softer but no less true.
You are still the ghost in every stanza, the candle smoke rising from my ribs; each word I spill is a quiet offering, salted with longing but untainted by envy, a testament that love can ache without turning to ash.
Though you’ve given your dawn to someone else’s horizon, my pen still bends toward you like a dying flower toward light — wilted perhaps, yet stubborn in its devotion.
I will not let this ache sour into bitterness, will not curse the distance nor envy the hands that hold you; for you remain — my cathedral of ruin and rapture, my muse, even still.
Every breath I draw writes you deeper, every silence between heartbeats echoes your name; and if my words must bruise me to keep you alive in them, then let them.
For love, when true, does not demand; it simply becomes — a quiet, stubborn flame flickering in the hollow of the chest, even when the night feels endless.
Even still, you are — the marrow of my ink, the shadow on my pulse, the ache I choose, the muse I will not forsake.
✒ Author’s Note
Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write. This piece came from that quiet, painful knowing: that love doesn’t always need to be returned to remain true. Even when hearts drift apart, some connections still live on in ink and breath. I offer this poem as both confession and blessing—to all who still carry someone in silence, with grace rather than envy.
✧ Closing Note ✧
If you, too, have a muse who lingers in your shadows and syllables—whether they stayed, left, or never truly belonged—know that your devotion does not diminish your strength. Feel free to share your thoughts, reflections, or even your own verses in the comments below. I would love to read the stories your ink still dares to carry.
Thank you for letting my words find you. — Rowan 🖋🖤
Poetry by Rowan Evans 