Author’s Note
This piece is me speaking to the one I care for, and to anyone who has ever let themselves be seen fully by another. There’s no illusion here—no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors. The “magic” I write about is the kind that happens when trust meets attention, when care meets desire, when devotion meets surrender. It’s messy, it’s quiet, it’s real. I wrote this to honor that kind of connection—the one that burns steady, that makes even the smallest moments feel sacred, and that reminds me why we give ourselves to the people we love.
The Power You Give Me
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m a magician, love—
sleight of hand in every touch,
danger in every whisper.
Not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats,
but the kind that pulls want
from the deepest parts of you
without even trying.
I touch you once—
and your breath forgets itself.
Twice—
and your pulse starts writing poetry
against your skin.
I speak a single word
and your knees remember
what surrender feels like.
My tongue is a wand,
a spellcaster,
a maker of quiet ruins—
and I use it
only on the deserving.
I can summon heat
with the drag of a fingertip,
pull desire from the air
like it’s silk waiting to be woven.
I draw circles on your skin
and watch them ignite,
slow, deliberate,
like I planned the fire
from the very beginning.
And when I say your name—
soft, low,
with that tone that hits you
right behind the ribs—
you’ll swear I enchanted you.
But it’s simpler than that.
No potions, no charms, no lies.
You react to me
because your body knows mine
before your mind catches up.
Because my magic isn’t tricks—
it’s instinct,
connection,
hunger braided with reverence.
And darling—
when I’m finished with you,
when you’re breathless and undone,
when the world goes quiet
except for the echo of my touch—
you’ll realize
I never cast spells at all.
I just showed you
the power you give me
when you let me close.
Because loving you—
that’s the real magic.
The kind that doesn’t spark
or shimmer,
but settles low and warm
right behind the heart,
glowing steady
like a lantern in a storm.
You don’t see it,
but every time you trust me,
every time you soften,
every time you let me
see the part of you
you hide from the world—
I feel something inside me
kneel.
Not out of worship,
but out of awe.
Out of the quiet truth
that your soul
is the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever been allowed to touch.
And if my hands
feel like sorcery,
if my voice
feels like a spell,
it’s only because
you turn even the smallest moment
into something sacred
just by being in it.
So yes—
I’ll whisper enchantments
against your skin,
trace constellations
on your pulse points,
pull storms and light and heat
from the spaces between us—
but that’s not power.
That’s devotion.
That’s choosing you
with every breath.
That’s giving you
the softest parts of me
and letting you hold them
like something holy.
And if that feels like magic—
then maybe it is.
But it’s yours.
It always has been.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 