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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: trust

  • Not Used to This – A Poem About Patience, Trauma, and Intimacy

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem grew from a quiet, unfolding space between two people learning to hold each other with patience and care. It explores the fragility of trust, the reflection of our traumas, and the slow, careful ways we allow someone to stay when we are used to people leaving. It is about intimacy that is not loud or dramatic, but steady, mirrored, and healing.

    Two people sitting across from each other, hands almost touching, in a dimly lit room with warm candlelight.
    “The quiet intimacy of two hearts learning to hold each other gently, reflected in soft shadows and warm light.”

    Not Used to This
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m not used to this.
    I’m used to doors closing,
    to footsteps fading
    before I can even speak.

    I’m not used to this.
    I’m not used to someone staying,
    leaning into the spaces
    I’ve long left empty.

    I bring my scars like lanterns,
    flickering, fragile,
    and you—
    you trace their edges with care,
    never flinching,
    never asking for more than I can give.

    I see your hesitations,
    the quiet tremor behind your smile,
    the shadowed corners of your past
    you tuck into your sleeves.
    You are careful with me,
    as I am with you.

    We move slowly,
    like two hands learning each other
    in the dark,
    tracing lines of trust
    over wounds that still ache.

    I am wary.
    I am heavy with history.
    I have loved and been left.
    I have built walls
    taller than myself.

    And still,
    you do not falter.
    Your patience is steady,
    like a river bending around stones,
    never harsh, never rushing,
    but always persistent.

    I notice the way you watch me,
    like you’re memorizing my silence,
    like you see the cracks
    and choose to stay anyway.
    I notice the way you hesitate,
    how your care mirrors my caution,
    how your wounds reflect mine
    without judgment or shame.

    We are both unpracticed
    in this kind of gentleness,
    this kind of giving.
    And yet—
    we are learning together.

    I am not used to it.
    I am not used to being held
    in someone else’s patience,
    to being mirrored in someone else’s heart.

    And I wonder—
    perhaps this is what it is to be seen,
    truly seen,
    and not abandoned.

    We do not need words for it.
    We do not need proof.
    The small gestures,
    the quiet constancy,
    the mirrored care—
    speak louder than anything we have ever known.

    I am not used to this.
    But I am beginning to be.
    And somehow, in this fragile, tender space,
    I am learning that it is enough
    for both of us to stay.

    For more poetry, check the [Library of Ashes]…

  • The Power You Give Me — A Neo‑Gothic Confessional Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    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.

    Silhouetted lovers in candlelight with soft, magical light swirling between their hands, evoking intimacy and quiet devotion.
    Intimacy becomes its own kind of magic.

    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.

  • In the Waiting — A Poem About Slow-Built Trust and Steady Love | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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 twilight garden with a softly glowing lantern beside a stone path, symbolizing patient and steady love.
    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.

    More of my poetry can be found here: The Library of Ashes

  • Sonnet of Submission – A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romantic Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    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.

    Twilight forest with soft light breaking through shadows, a glowing lantern casting ethereal warmth in a romantic, gothic setting.
    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.

    If you liked this piece, check out more of my work in [The Library of Ashes]!

  • The Fear of No Fear at All – A Reflection on Love, Safety, and Vulnerability | Rowan Evans Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This reflection came to me as a kind of whisper — the voice of every anxious soul who has spent years mistaking chaos for connection. The Fear of No Fear at All is not about panic, but about peace — and how frightening peace can be when you’ve learned to survive on the edge of heartbreak.
    It’s about the moment you realize that being seen, truly seen, doesn’t have to hurt.

    Sunlight through sheer curtains, illuminating an open journal and cup of tea on a wooden desk.
    When love finally feels safe, fear becomes the last ghost to leave.

    The Fear of No Fear at All
    Reflection by Rowan Evans

    There’s a kind of fear only the anxious understand—
    not the kind that makes your pulse race,
    but the kind that falls silent when something finally feels right.

    When you’ve spent years waiting for the floor to collapse,
    for love to turn sharp, for tenderness to vanish like smoke,
    peace feels dangerous. Safety feels foreign.
    Your body doesn’t trust the quiet;
    it waits for the crash that never comes.

    And then one day, someone walks in—
    and there is no crash.
    No second-guessing, no masks to hold.
    You find yourself unguarded, unarmed,
    and the absence of panic is the most terrifying thing of all.

    Because what do you do
    when love doesn’t demand that you bleed for it?
    When it asks only for your truth,
    your laughter, your unhidden self?

    That is the fear of no fear at all—
    the trembling realization that maybe,
    after all this time,
    you are finally safe here.

    🕛 Coming at 12:05 am (UTC +8)

    A companion piece — the moment that inspired this realization.
    ✨ The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun) — a vignette of confession, connection, and the beautiful terror of truth.