Author’s Note
This piece began exactly where it sounds like it did:
With a headache.
Not a dramatic one. Not a poetic one.
Just the kind that makes it difficult to focus. The kind where every sound feels a little sharper than it should. The kind where your thoughts stop moving cleanly and start dragging their feet.
I sat down intending to write about that feeling.
But somewhere along the way, the poem became less about pain and more about disconnection.
Because what struck me wasn’t the headache itself.
It was the strange sensation of feeling slightly removed from the world around me.
Like reality had taken half a step backward.
Like I was still present, but not entirely anchored.
The images of echoes, warped thoughts, blurred edges, and slipping focus all came from trying to describe that experience as honestly as possible.
What surprised me was where the poem ended.
I started by writing about a physical sensation.
I ended by writing about recognition.
About the desire to feel fully present again.
To feel connected to yourself, your surroundings, and the moment you’re living in.
The title comes from that realization.
Because sometimes discomfort doesn’t make us feel absent.
It makes us feel forgotten.
Not by other people, necessarily, but by the world itself.
As though we’ve drifted just far enough away from ourselves to notice the distance.
And all we can do is sit quietly and wait for clarity to return.
For the world to remember us again.
— Rowan Evans
For the World to Remember Me Again
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve got a headache,
can’t see straight—
vision blurring at the edges.
It’s the kind of headache—
where even the silence
is loud.
And I sit in it,
this ringing hush,
like the world has stepped back
and left me echoing alone.
It’s like—
every sound echoes
in a cavernous skull.
Like my thoughts are ricocheting
off the walls of me,
coming back warped,
a little less mine
each time—
the rhythm
loses a little bit
of its rhyme.
Every pulse is thunder,
every heartbeat a warning—
a storm gathering
behind my eyes.
I try to focus,
but the edges keep slipping—
like my mind is smudging
under its own weight.
So I breathe,
slow and deliberate,
hoping the world will settle
back into focus—
or at least…
stop slipping away.
And I wait,
quiet as I can,
for the world
to remember me again.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.
[Recognizes Home]
A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.
[Monster Theology]
What if the monsters under the bed weren’t monsters at all? Monster Theology explores difference, belonging, and the human tendency to fear what we don’t understand through a conversation with the creatures we’ve spent our lives imagining.
[Not Rebuilding You]
A poem about love as an act of presence rather than rescue. Through construction imagery, Not Rebuilding You explores trust, devotion, emotional safety, and the quiet work of building a foundation strong enough for healing to grow.
If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]
Poetry by Rowan Evans 