Author’s Note
This piece was originally written on May 16th, 2025 and revised on March 5th, 2026.
When I first wrote it, I was trying to put language to a very specific feeling: the quiet intensity of caring for someone without the expectation of possession. Not infatuation, not conquest – something slower, more patient. Something willing to wait.
When I revisited this poem nearly a year later, I realized the core of it hadn’t changed. What needed revision wasn’t the emotion, but the clarity of the language carrying it. So the edits focused on sharpening the rhythm and giving the poem room to breathe.
At its heart, this piece is about devotion without pressure. About choosing someone’s mind, their spirit, their survival – long before anything physical ever enters the conversation.
Some connections are loud.
Others are learned slowly, like scripture – line by line, in candlelight.
— Rowan Evans
Litany of the Unseen
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I write you from the ache—
that quiet hunger
that doesn’t scream,
only simmers
beneath my ribs
when I think of the way
your silence
feels like scripture.
We’ve never touched.
But gods,
how I’ve memorized
the shape of your mind
like fingers tracing verses
down a sinner’s spine.
You are flame
wrapped in frost,
and I?
I’ve learned to burn
patiently—
in half-light,
between the lines
we won’t say out loud.
Not yet.
I don’t flinch when you flinch.
Don’t run
when your walls rise like cathedrals.
I kneel there,
devout to the altar of your guardedness,
lighting candles from the sparks
you try to hide.
You are my kind of wicked—
a temptation carved
in shadow and starlight.
I’d follow your lead gladly,
no leash needed.
You won’t have to tell me to kneel—
I’m already on my knees,
in prayer to your divinity.
I know the things you’ve survived
don’t leave quietly.
I’ve kissed ghosts before,
I’ve held hands with trauma—
I won’t ask you to exorcise yours.
I only want to be
the breath
between your battlegrounds,
a peace
that doesn’t demand surrender.
A vow made not in rings,
but in the way I never leave
when the light dies.
You could dig your doubts
into the marrow of my faith,
and still
I’d come bearing roses
with thorns pressed
to my own skin.
Tell me to wait.
I’ll grow roots.
Tell me you’re not ready.
I’ll build time in your image.
Your heart doesn’t scare me.
Not its lock,
not its labyrinth.
I will read your scars
like secret psalms,
and worship
every wound
that taught you
to be wary of softness.
You are a slow scripture—
and I am learning your verses
by candlelight,
with tongue and tear,
with patience
dressed in velvet.
I am not here for conquest.
I am here for communion.
So when you are ready—
if you are ready—
I’ll still be here.
A sanctuary of unbroken promises,
with fire in my hands
and no expectations on my lips.
Just the unspoken truth:
You are already holy to me,
even unseen.
Even untouched.
And I would choose your mind
a thousand times
before your body ever asked.
If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]
Poetry by Rowan Evans 