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.
Sonnet of Submission is a tender exploration of trust, surrender, and sacred intimacy. Written in late October 2024, this piece captures the quiet strength found in yielding and the beauty of finding refuge in love.
A lantern of love guiding the heart through shadows.
Sonnet of Submission Poetry by Rowan Evans (Written October 29th, 2024)
In twilight’s glow, where shadows softly play, I yield my heart, my mind, my very soul, To thee, whose touch can chase the night away, In your embrace, I find my truest whole.
With every whispered word, my doubts unwind, In tender moments, trust begins to bloom, Your love, a lantern, guiding me to find A sacred space, where darkness meets its doom.
I grant you all—my fears, my dreams, my grace, In yielding, I discover strength anew; For in this bond, I find my rightful place, With you, I’m anchored, safe in love so true.
So take my heart, my spirit, let us soar, In sweet submission, I am yours, evermore.
This one’s for my favorite Filipina — a little ode to laughs, love, and high-high vibes. Pop-culture winks included; if you understand them, you get bonus points. 😉
High-High: A poetic tribute to love, laughter, and devotion—Rowan Evans.
High-High Poetry by Rowan Evans
You’re my favorite Filipina, Attitude stronger than Mary Jane. Girl, you get me high-high, rising on your laugh, floating in your flame— I feel the buzz just saying your name.
Who needs drugs when you’re my bliss? I could overdose from a single kiss. Girl, you get me high-high, like Red Bull, you give me wings— so watch me fly.
I was sober til the day I met you, now I’m addicted, it’s true. Roll up your smile, spark the flame, girl, you get me high-high, Every time you say my name.
Yeah, you get me high-high, like it’s Puffy, Ami Yumi. I mean, you make me want to Park— myself right next to you, like my name is Sandara.
Trust—I’ll never let you feel alone. Mahal Kita. Mahal Ko. I’ll take your laugh, inject it straight into my veins— let it feed directly into my brain.
Girl, you get me high-high, and you’re my favorite Filipina. You’re my favorite munchie to turn to— girl, you’re the drug and the snack.
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.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 