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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Patient-Love

  • In the Waiting — A Poem About Slow-Built Trust and Steady Love | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I wrote this piece to honor the kind of love that doesn’t rush, pressure, or demand. The kind of love that waits — not out of desperation, but devotion. Trust is something earned through presence, not promises, and this poem is a reminder that patience can be its own form of tenderness.

    A twilight garden with a softly glowing lantern beside a stone path, symbolizing patient and steady love.
    A lantern in a quiet garden — the place where trust takes root slowly, in the soft hours of waiting.

    In the Waiting
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (Written April 28th, 2025)

    I won’t ask you to trust me just because I say you should.
    I won’t ask you to give me your heart on a silver platter
    and expect it to bloom with nothing but my words.

    I know trust is not something that can be rushed.
    It is not a gift handed out on a whim.
    It is a treasure, earned slowly,
    through the quiet moments,
    the steady presence that never falters.
    It is a promise that must be built, brick by fragile brick,
    and I understand that.

    But I hope you’ll let me show you
    that my hands are steady.
    That I will be here,
    even in the silence,
    even in the waiting.

    I want to prove to you that not all hearts
    come with the shadows of broken promises.
    Not all love is born of betrayal.
    Some love grows like a garden—
    slow, patient, gentle,
    with roots that dig deep
    and blossoms that reach for the light.

    I don’t want to rush you into believing me,
    but I want to give you the space
    to see me,
    to feel me,
    and know, in the quiet moments,
    that I am here,
    waiting,
    always.

    And if you choose to trust me,
    when you choose to trust me,
    I’ll be the one who proves that it was worth the wait,
    that love can be steady,
    that my heart is yours,
    whenever you’re ready to reach for it.

    I’ll wait,
    quiet as the stars,
    steadfast as the earth beneath us,
    until the moment you choose to take the leap,
    and I’ll be there,
    steady,
    waiting,
    ready to show you
    that I will never break you
    the way the others did.

    And when you’re ready,
    I will love you with the tenderness of someone
    who has learned the value of patience,
    who knows that love is not a race,
    but a journey.

    Until then,
    I’ll be here.
    Waiting.
    With an open heart,
    and a love that grows with every breath.

    More of my poetry can be found here: The Library of Ashes

  • Don’t Need to Be First, I Just Want to Be The Last

    Rowan Evans

    I didn’t arrive with fireworks.
    No trumpet of fate announced my coming.
    I stepped into your life
    like rain slipping through the cracks of an old roof—
    gentle, persistent, quiet.

    You didn’t see me at first,
    your eyes were too full of smoke
    from the fires they set in your soul.
    But I saw you—
    the way moonlight sees a battlefield after war,
    not for the blood,
    but for the wildflowers growing through the bones.

    They loved you like a tempest,
    tore through your softness
    and called it passion.
    They mistook your silence for surrender
    and your loyalty for something to conquer.
    But I am not a storm—
    I am the stillness that follows.
    I am the breath you forgot to take.

    You don’t need to open the door all at once.
    Leave it ajar—
    I’ll wait on the porch of your trust
    until your ribs remember how to unlock.

    They got to your heart first—
    left it threadbare and trembling.
    But I’ll be the one who sits beside it
    without asking it to perform.
    You don’t need to shine for me—
    I will love you in shadow.

    Let them be the architects of your ache.
    I will be the gardener of your healing.
    I’ll trace the map of your scars
    like constellations no one else stayed to name,
    and I’ll kiss each one
    like a holy place
    I am blessed to touch.

    I don’t need to be the first to hold your hand,
    just the last to let it go.

    Let them be the spark,
    the flame,
    the blaze that blinded.
    I’ll be the hearth—
    quiet, warm,
    steady in the long winter of your doubt.

    You are not shattered, my love—
    you are stained glass,
    lit from within.
    And I am the pew beneath your cathedral soul,
    content just to be close,
    just to kneel and whisper your name
    like a sacred hymn.

    You are not a burden.
    You are a blessing that learned to walk with a limp.
    You are the poem they tried to rewrite,
    but I’ll read you as you are—
    every crossed-out line, every redacted verse,
    every unfinished sentence—
    and still call you complete.

    Because I don’t want to be your first.
    Let them hold that hollow crown.
    I want to be your last—
    the one who stays
    when the curtain falls and the world forgets,
    the one who wraps their arms around the quiet ache
    and says, I see you.
    You don’t have to run anymore.

    And when the night softens into dawn,
    I will be the gentle hand that brushes your hair from your face—
    warm fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek,
    the subtle scent of rain and jasmine lingering on your skin,
    the quiet breath that hums your favorite song—
    a lullaby that holds you safe.

    I will be the promise
    in the slow unfolding of morning light,
    the softness of a whispered name
    lingering between us like a secret.

    Let them fade like shadows on forgotten walls.
    I will be the light in your slow sunrise—
    steadfast, unwavering,
    the last embrace
    you reach for
    when the world grows still.