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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Slow-Love

  • Before I Say It – A Poem About Love, Hesitation, and Wanting to Mean the Words

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some words carry weight.

    I’ve said them before in lighter seasons, when the feeling was warm but feeling. This time feels different. This time, I want to be certain before I let them leave my mouth.

    This poem is about hesitation – not because I’m unsure of you, but because I want the words to be true when I say them.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing quietly at a cliff edge overlooking a calm ocean at sunset.
    Some words are worth waiting to mean.

    Before I Say It
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I dance around them—
    the words I want to say.
    One letter followed by four,
    finished by three.
    It’s funny to me,
    this fear that grips my chest.
    I try my best
    to push it out,
    to keep it down.

    I bite my tongue
    so the words won’t come out.
    Even though,
    I’d stand on the ledge
    and shout.
    I’d scream it out.
    If I wasn’t so—

    scared.

    But what am I afraid of?
    What is it exactly,
    that makes this anxiety
    attack me?

    It’s the feelings inside,
    they feel brand new.
    Like nothing
    I’ve ever experienced.
    Sure, I have had
    crushes before—
    but this feels
    different.

    I’ve said—
    1-4-3 before,
    with ease.
    Easy as
    a summer’s breeze,
    with a warmth to match.
    But the feelings
    weren’t attached.

    But with you,
    the words hit my teeth—
    fall into retreat,
    because I want to be sure.
    I want to know
    that these feelings,
    that I’m feeling—
    these moths in my stomach,
    fluttering toward
    the flickering light
    inside my mind,
    the thoughts of you.

    I want to know
    they’re true.
    Because I never
    want to lie to you.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [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.