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.
Băobèi was written last year during a season of longing—when affection felt vast, distant, and almost mythic. It lived quietly in my drafts, waiting for a moment when it could breathe on its own.
This poem is devotion rendered as geography: islands, blossoms, moonlight, and stars becoming a language for love. It is about carrying someone in every word, every breath, every imagined horizon. About how a name can become a compass.
Some poems are born loud. This one waited.
A garden of light—where devotion blooms between shore, sky, and dream.
Băobèi Poetry by Rowan Evans
Băobèi—
your beauty rivals that of the Sakura,
petals like whispered secrets
drifting through my ink-stained veins.
And I got your name,
tatted on the tip of my tongue,
your essence lives in every word that I say,
haunting the shadows of my pen,
echoing in the silence between heartbeats.
Now I’m hopping islands, in search of
your divineness. Your royalty,
I bow to you, your highness.
I crowned you the queen
of my twilight kingdom.
Your loyal subjects,
all shadows of my thoughts.
Cherry blossoms fade,
but your radiance lingers,
Orchid petals from Mindoro
drip like honeyed secrets,
Lotus from distant ponds
mirrors your serene grace,
Frangipani drifts across the wind,
carrying your laughter.
Sampaguita blooms in hidden corners,
its tiny white stars like your quiet strength,
Ylang-ylang whispers perfume into the night,
each scent a pulse of your heartbeat
I am drawn to like the tide.
I trace the heavens in your honor—
a moon suspended over Manila Bay,
its reflection trembling across dark water,
mirroring the tremor in my chest
each time your name passes my lips.
The Milky Way drapes over islands and mountains,
a silken veil for your light to wander beneath,
and I follow, tracing your essence
through ink, shadow, and the spaces between heartbeats,
until the world itself becomes
a garden of your light.
You are the rose in my ruin,
the bloom I cradle in the ashes of my nights,
the ink I spill across silent pages,
and I am forever your humble witness,
your loyal poet in a kingdom
built from devotion, dusk, and flame.
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 about safety—not the kind that cages, but the kind that invites you to stay. It’s about finding someone who doesn’t demand your strength or survival instincts, only your honesty. Someone who makes asking for help feel like an act of trust rather than surrender.
1-4-3 is a quiet confession of rootedness. Of choosing presence over flight. Of love that doesn’t chase or trap, but steadies.
Sometimes the bravest thing we do is stop running—and stay.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes love isn’t about needing someone—it’s about choosing to stay.
1-4-3 Poetry by Rowan Evans
1-4-3 My Muse Avenue, where I dwell— where the words swell. Girl, you don’t understand; you inspire my ink well.
When I feel lost, and in need of help, it’s you I turn to. Not because I expect you to fix me— simply because you make it safe enough to ask.
And that’s no small feat, because fear used to run my feet. Any time I felt safe, any flicker of hope in my chest, my feet would begin to move.
But this time? They stay planted— firm, like roots, unwilling to move. Because you…
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.
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 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.
Some love is written in whispers, some in roars. Some love challenges you, confounds you, makes you question everything you thought you knew about desire, trust, and devotion. This piece is for that kind of love—the kind that doesn’t ask for perfection, but for honesty. The kind that turns what the world sees as flaws into the most beautiful invitations, the most sacred of green lights.
It’s about seeing someone fully, leaning in when others might run, and finding that the very things that could push you away are the things you are drawn to most. These are the red flags that are secretly green, the chaos that feels like home, the complexity that makes your heart stretch wide enough to hold another soul.
Read it as confession. Read it as celebration. Read it as a permission slip for intimacy, wildness, and trust.
The green flags hidden within the chaos—intimacy, trust, and love in their rawest forms.
Green Flags in Disguise Poetry by Rowan Evans (Written April 29th, 2025)
You laid your cards down one by one—
Red flags, you called them.
Warnings.
Not to scare me off,
just to see if I’d run.
I didn’t. I leaned in.
“Anger issues?”
You’ve been gaslit, babe—
called volatile for daring to feel
in a world that only makes room
for men to explode.
But your rage? It’s sacred fire.
I’d build temples in the ashes.
That’s not a flaw. That’s clarity.
Every time you cursed “idiot,”
my heart stuttered with how right it felt.
Why is this so attractive?
Call me weird—
But everything you thought made you unlovable
is exactly what I love.
“Paranoia?”
Please. I get it.
You’ve been betrayed by the hands that held you.
I’ve lived the same kind of quiet, twitching dread.
So if you need to ask questions twice, or ten times—
ask.
I won’t judge.
I’ll just stay.
“Possessive?”
Yes, please.
Own me.
Call me yours with your whole chest.
Claim every piece of me with teeth and intent.
I won’t run—I’ll beg for more.
Mark me. Mold me.
Make me forget who I was
before I belonged to you.
“Jealous?”
God, it’s hot.
Not the petty kind, not the toxic kind—
The kind that says you matter to me so much it scares me.
I wouldn’t ever give you a reason to doubt.
But if I slipped up…
I’d want to be punished.
Yes, I’m that kind of submissive.
“Strict?”
Say less.
Tell me what to do.
Correct me when I misstep.
Guide me with that edge in your voice—
the one that makes my knees forget how to be knees.
I was made for this.
For you.
“Unpredictable?”
That’s not a red flag.
That’s spontaneity.
That’s adventure.
That’s yes, let’s burn the script and make our own.
You bring the chaos—I’ll bring the trust.
“A bitch at times?”
Be one more.
Be unapologetic.
Be brutal when it calls for it.
The world tried to tame you.
Let me be the one who tells you not to flinch.
Your sharpness is beautiful.
Cut me, and I’ll bleed loyalty.
“Sarcastic?”
Perfect.
Fluent in sarcasm.
It’s our dialect now.
Trade jabs with me until it turns to kisses.
Be wicked with your words—I’ll turn them into poems.
“A little selfish?”
Good. Be selfish.
Take what you want.
You deserve that, and more.
You deserve someone who doesn’t flinch when you demand,
someone who smiles when you dominate.
You want a submissive partner?
I’m kneeling already.
You just didn’t notice.
Every “yes, ma’am,”
every “tell me what you need”—
That was me offering myself on a velvet platter.
And I’ll keep offering,
if you’ll keep taking.
“A little sadist?”
Your nails, your teeth, your whispered sins—
I crave them.
I want your bite to outlast the bruises.
I want your darkness to stretch its limbs across me
until I can’t tell where I end and you begin.
“Loves darkness?”
Darling.
I was born in it, too.
We don’t have to be afraid of each other’s shadows.
We light them.
So no.
I don’t see red.
I see you.
And maybe I’m colorblind—
maybe I’ve got protanomaly, babe—
because all I see is green.
Green like go.
Green like yes.
Green like marry me.
Yeah, I said it.
I know you’ll probably get smug,
or tease me,
or roast the hell out of me for this—
but I’m ready.
Test me again.
I’ll pass.
Every time.
Suggested Reads
[My Red Flags]— A Dark Romance Poem About Loving the Dangerous “You told me you had anger issues. But I’ve only seen you furious in defense—a saint of righteous fire.”
‘My Red Flags’ is a confession disguised as a love spell. In this dark romantic poem, Rowan Evans turns every warning sign into worship—an ode to danger, devotion, and the art of loving without fear of burning.
If you would like to check out more of my work, you can find it here in the archives: The Library of Ashes
Some confessions are too tender to say aloud. Sometimes the ink knows them before the voice does.
Letting the ink speak the confessions my heart cannot.
Confessions in Ink Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sit with words trembling at the tip of my tongue— confessions I can’t speak, so I let the ink speak for me.
Like—I love…
the way you say my name, the sound of your laugh, that little giggle when a joke just lands. Or— how you make me feel safe enough to be myself— completely.
And how you changed the way I see myself. I used to think I wanted to be someone else— anyone else. But now I don’t. Now I just want to be me— the me I am with you, the me that dreams of living in your world, learning the shape of your tongue.
It’s kind of crazy— the way you changed me. Because when I used to feel like this, I ran. But now I stay.
You make me want to stay. You make it easy to want to stay.
And there is so much more…
Maybe one day I’ll find the courage to speak it out loud. But for now— I’ll let the ink speak—for me.
For more shadows and whispers, visit the Library of Ashes archive.
Confessional, flustered, and honest—this poem captures the way love can unravel us, make our thoughts stumble, and leave us quietly devoted. Every word is a small truth, written in real time as emotions take over.
“Thoughts spilled across pages, heart tangled in quiet devotion.”
Flustered AF Poetry by Rowan Evans
Listen—this is odd for me. I don’t normally do this— I’m not usually this vulnerable.
(What am I saying? Yes I am. I’m a confessional poet; all I do is vulnerability.)
But you’ve got me flustered. You’re the static in my brain. I can’t think, can’t speak, until I hear you say my name. Then the words just stumble out.
I don’t think you understand— the kind of power you’ve got over me. Wrapped around your finger? Yeah, I am. You say jump, I say how high— You say kneel, and I don’t question why. If you want me to bark? (Woof!) I’ll become a dog for you. I mean—I’ll be loyal to you.
(Did I just write a line about barking, then say I would be a dog, just to say how loyal I’d be? Yep, sure did.)
I’d always be excited to see you. And you could call me all sorts of names— if you used the right tone of voice, it wouldn’t matter what you were saying. I’d still be happy to be there with you.
And I know, this is all kind of weird… The line about barking, and being a dog, just to set up a comment about loyalty— but I can’t think straight, because you’ve got me flustered beyond reason, and the thoughts are just pouring out. With no rhyme or reason, it’s almost too conversational.
(Have I even used a metaphor yet?)
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
You’ve done this a thousand times before, Rowan. Why is this one so different? This isn’t even the first time you’ve written about love like this. It’s not even the first time you’ve written about loving her—like this.
There was… I Love You— Enough to Go Silent, Enough to Break Willingly, and Enough To Learn You. Beautiful Little Cobra, or My Red Flags, and Perfect—For Me.
(That one’s about how you’re perfectly imperfect, but you’re perfect for me.)
The Prayer of Two Tongues, and so many more— I just haven’t had the chance to share. Maybe it’s because I’m scared. So I turned them into— Letters Never Sent.
I mean… I want you to know how I feel, but I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want to lose what we have, yet… I also want it to grow into more.
It’s safe to say, I suspect you don’t feel the same, and you probably never will. (And that’s okay. Really.)
This is just me… bleeding thoughts on a page. And even as I write this to you, I know you’ll probably never read it. Not because you wouldn’t, but because I’m too scared to send it.
(And it’s really long. I know that can be overwhelming. I tried to keep it in check, but the words just kept coming.)
Inhale— and now it’s quiet again. The static fades. Exhale— your name still hums behind my ribs. I tell myself that’s enough. For now, it has to be.
So I don’t send it. But I mean every word.
If you enjoyed this piece, you might also enjoy my other poems about being flustered…
[Rewired (Flustered & Yours)] A raw, breathless confession about what happens when someone gets so deep under your skin that even your lungs forget how to work. A poem about fluster, desire, and the kind of connection that rewires you from the inside out.
Some moments are so intense, so ridiculously consuming, that your body forgets how to function, your words trip over themselves, and your thoughts scatter. Rewired (Flustered & Yours) comes from one of those moments—a truth too big for neat packaging, too raw for polish.
This poem is about what it feels like when a single person rewires your entire system. When one word, one message, one call can leave your chest racing, your lungs screaming, and your mind spinning. It’s messy. It’s unhinged. It’s completely, unapologetically honest.
Not every confession arrives clean. Not every feeling lands gracefully. Some of them stumble, fumble, and fall—just like the words in this poem. And yet, that’s the point. This is the closest I’ve come to capturing what it feels like to be utterly, irreversibly flustered by someone who matters more than anything.
Breathless, rewired, and undone.
Rewired (Flustered & Yours) Poetry by Rowan Evans
One word—I’m shook. Shaken to the core. Bend me, break me, you’ll have me— begging for more.
My tongue tied, knots that try and stop the words. They slip, tumble, fumble from my lips. Tripping over themselves, but I wouldn’t want to be— anywhere else.
And it hurts a little, but I kind of like it though. I’m so— masochistic. In love with you, so sadistic.
It’s like a— slow burn on my skin, it’s become my favorite sin. So when you look at me, my brain forgets how to breathe, automatically. I’ve got to think about it, I have to do it manually.
Inhale, my lungs yell, as I become light-headed. Struggling to keep my thoughts straight. As my brain races, but not in the way I’m used to. You are the cause, this is what you do.
Exhale— feel the air stick in my lungs. Like my body is in full protest. Not against you, but against what it’s supposed to do. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to survive.
Like knowing you, has rewired every part of me. This is what it looks like— how you fluster me. How you’re everything I crave. The way one word, can make me cave.
The rhythm in my chest? It beats for you. These lungs, they breathe for you. It’s like you’ve claimed me, without staking a claim— I’m just sayin’, I’m yours.
Curious for more? Step intoThe Library of Ashes, where every poem has a story to tell.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 