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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: unrequited love

  • X Marks the Spot – A Poetic Exploration of Love, Self, and Liminality

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece comes from a place of vulnerability, liminality, and admiration. The Tagalog phrases woven throughout are not mine by heritage—they are borrowed from a language and culture I deeply respect and love. I am an unseasoned human—what I’m saying is—(I’m white)—learning, listening, and witnessing, not claiming.

    The poem captures the ache of unrequited love, the quiet storms of thought, and the struggle between self-perception and self-acceptance. It’s an honest snapshot of a mind caught between calm and panic, between longing and reverence, and ultimately, between fear and love.

    I offer it as a small testament: to the languages that shape us, to the people who inspire us, and to the inner worlds we carry with us every day.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person in a dimly lit, ethereal space, surrounded by glowing threads representing thoughts and inner turmoil.
    Caught in liminal space—threads of thought, longing, and quiet intensity swirl around.

    X Marks the Spot
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been in this—
    liminal space for days.
    Thoughts static.
    Somewhere between
    calm and panic.

    I’m trying to work it out,
    trying to get out of it.
    So let me try to explain
    a little of what’s been
    running through my brain.

    I’m in love—
    God, I’ve never felt like this before.
    I’m in love,
    and I can’t stand it.
    Her name hums in my blood;
    I can’t escape it.
    She doesn’t feel the same,
    and maybe that’s the ache I was born for.

    So here I sit,
    my thoughts rain
    on my parade.
    I’m just trying to pretend
    like I’m okay.
    I look in the mirror,
    at the face I hate.
    Pangit ako, that’s all I can say.
    Just wishing I could go away—
    get out of my head for
    a fucking day.

    Vacay.
    Vacate.
    Just leave.

    I’m done begging for release.
    I’ve got amnesia—forgot how to say (please?)
    So they say I lost my manners.
    Nah, I’ve lost my mind.
    And I’m struggling to find
    the letter before Z—(the why?)
    Like X marks the spot.

    But I’m in love,
    and that’s what keeps me going.
    I’m in love with the visual of a glowing stove top.
    What I’m saying is—(she’s hot.)
    And I know I don’t stand a chance.
    She’s MLB, and I’m just Double A.
    What I’m saying is—(she’s out of my league.)

    Body like an astronaut—
    she’s out of this world.
    And I’ve got a face,
    like I came from outer space.
    What I’m saying is—(I’m ugly.)

    It’s okay, I know I’m not ugly…
    Not really. (Don’t be silly.)
    Because I’m hot when I rhyme,
    but I only rhyme sometimes.
    Like when I look at my wrist—
    watch, I’ve got time. (Get it? Wrist watch.)

    Pangit ako, pero mahal ko talaga ang sarili ko.

    If you didn’t understand
    what I just said…

    What I’m saying is—
    I am ugly, but I really do love myself.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Liminal Static]
    A flickering descent into the space between thought and stillness — where static hums, visions fade, and reason trembles at the edge of dream.

    [Exhibit of Survival]
    A raw reflection on resilience, empathy, and the strength to stay soft despite adversity. Rowan Evans shares their journey of surviving doubt, heartbreak, and internal battles while keeping their heart open to love and connection.

    [22 Confessions]
    A minimalist exploration of truths, confessions, and self-reflection—one poem for every year I (Rowan Evans) have been writing. Some are small. Some are unbearable. All are mine.

  • To Be Near Your Flame – Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some connections strike with a force that makes us linger in the light, even when shadows have always been our refuge. This piece explores that fragile balance—the tension between caution and desire, between self-preservation and the magnetic pull of another soul. It is an ode to the quiet bravery of staying present, even when the heart risks everything for the chance to be near someone who ignites it.

    Flickering candle in a dark room, casting warm, intimate shadows.
    A quiet flame mirrors the gentle longing of the heart—intimate, steady, and unwavering.

    To Be Near Your Flame
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This is all new to me—
    this need to speak your name,
    to feel your laugh
    echoing through the quiet spaces
    of my heart.

    Usually, I retreat—
    pull away,
    hide in the shadows
    until feelings
    fade
    like whispers lost to the wind.
    But with you?

    With you, I linger.
    Even if the light burns,
    even if it ends
    with heartbreak’s echo,
    I don’t want to run.
    You make me feel alive—
    when before, I was just a ghost,
    moving through motions
    without meaning.

    You’re so easy to talk to,
    a melody in human form,
    and I would trade sleep for your voice,
    give hours to the night
    just to hear
    the way you say my name—
    a moth to your flame,
    willing to burn
    if it means I can stay near.

    You are always in my thoughts,
    painting every corner of my mind
    with your smile,
    your laugh,
    the softness of your being.

    And still—
    if all I can do
    is help you find happiness,
    even if not beside me,
    even if my arms stay empty
    while you shine elsewhere—
    I will do it.
    For your smile is worth
    every sacrifice,
    every unspoken wish,
    every late-night conversation
    under distant skies.

    Benediction

    May the hearts who wander in shadow find courage to linger in the light.
    May the flame of connection burn bright, steady, and unashamed.
    And may love, in its quiet, unwavering form, teach us the art of devotion without demand,
    The grace of presence without possession,
    And the sacred truth that to be near another is sometimes the bravest act of all.

  • 🖤 Even Still, You Are (My Muse) – Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    There are muses we choose—and muses we simply are chosen by.
    This poem, Even Still, You Are (My Muse), is an unguarded confession: a testament to loving someone beyond possession, to honoring the ache without letting it rot into bitterness.
    It is about distance, devotion, and that stubborn flame that survives even when love must stand quietly, reverently, outside the door.

    Ink-stained quill on parchment surrounded by candles. Smoke rises from the quill, forming a woman's silhouette, dark velvet backgro8nd, soft candlelight, evoking romantic melancholy in muted gothic tones.
    Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.

    “Even Still, You Are (My Muse)”
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Even as the distance blooms
    like dark velvet between us,
    your name still stains my breath —
    an unspoken psalm etched in marrow,
    a prayer that burns softer
    but no less true.

    You are still the ghost in every stanza,
    the candle smoke rising from my ribs;
    each word I spill is a quiet offering,
    salted with longing but untainted by envy,
    a testament that love can ache
    without turning to ash.

    Though you’ve given your dawn
    to someone else’s horizon,
    my pen still bends toward you
    like a dying flower toward light —
    wilted perhaps, yet stubborn in its devotion.

    I will not let this ache sour into bitterness,
    will not curse the distance
    nor envy the hands that hold you;
    for you remain —
    my cathedral of ruin and rapture,
    my muse, even still.

    Every breath I draw writes you deeper,
    every silence between heartbeats
    echoes your name;
    and if my words must bruise me
    to keep you alive in them,
    then let them.

    For love, when true, does not demand;
    it simply becomes —
    a quiet, stubborn flame
    flickering in the hollow of the chest,
    even when the night feels endless.

    Even still, you are —
    the marrow of my ink,
    the shadow on my pulse,
    the ache I choose,
    the muse I will not forsake.

    ✒ Author’s Note

    Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.
    This piece came from that quiet, painful knowing: that love doesn’t always need to be returned to remain true.
    Even when hearts drift apart, some connections still live on in ink and breath.
    I offer this poem as both confession and blessing—to all who still carry someone in silence, with grace rather than envy.

    ✧ Closing Note ✧

    If you, too, have a muse who lingers in your shadows and syllables—whether they stayed, left, or never truly belonged—know that your devotion does not diminish your strength.
    Feel free to share your thoughts, reflections, or even your own verses in the comments below.
    I would love to read the stories your ink still dares to carry.

    Thank you for letting my words find you.
    — Rowan 🖋🖤

    🔗 You May Also Like 🔗
    My Only Muse – Then & Now

    Check out more in The Library of Ashes!

  • A Letter I’ll Never Send (Prayer of the Heartbroken Heretic) — A Poetic Offering by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans
    A white rose bloomed in a harsh environment. "A Letter I'll Never Send" by Trans Poetess, Rowan Evans.
    loving you was never my ruin.
    It was my prayer, my litany,
    my small rebellion against the cold.

    A Letter I’ll Never Send

    (Prayer of the Heartbroken Heretic)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Read this not as accusation, but as offering.
    A prayer whispered by a heart still trembling,
    written not to hold you close,
    but to keep my tenderness from turning to stone.

    This is not a chain.
    This is the soft gospel of what remains
    after hope has burned away—
    and love still kneels, unrepentant,
    in the ruin.

    My dear—

    If these words ever find you,
    know they were never meant to chain you.
    I only wanted to love you,
    even if my name fades from your midnight prayers.

    If laughter keeps you warm,
    even if I am nowhere near to hear it—
    may it spill from you like dawn breaking over ash.

    But if there’s mercy left for a fool who loved too openly,
    let me stay beside you, even if only as a soft shadow.
    Let me remain—not as what could have been,
    but as what still is:
    a witness, a shelter, a friend.

    If you drift away,
    may it be gentle—
    and may it never teach me to regret
    the softness I offered so freely.

    Teach me how to bless your joy,
    even when it blooms in soil I cannot touch.
    Teach me to carry this ache as devotion,
    not as bitterness.

    If my heart must break,
    let it break open, not closed.
    Let me remain unrepentant
    in the way I loved you—quietly, fiercely,
    without demand.

    And if nothing else remains,
    know this:
    loving you was never my ruin.
    It was my prayer, my litany,
    my small rebellion against the cold.

    Always,
    and still—
    Amen.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    Go gently, even in absence.
    May the ache remain soft, not sharp;
    the memory remain blessing, not curse.

    And if your own heart ever trembles
    under the weight of unspoken devotion,
    may you remember this:

    Love freely, ’cause love given is never wasted—
    and even unreturned prayers
    still rise like incense
    into the quiet night.

    Check out more poetry in The Library of Ashes!

  • The Soft Apocalypse of Loving You

    Rowan Evans

    I was not prepared for you—
    not for the quiet cataclysm
    you carried in your smile,
    or the way your voice
    broke open a hidden cathedral
    in my chest.

    Loving you feels like the world ending
    slowly, beautifully—
    as if the stars decided to fall
    not in ruin,
    but in reverence.

    You are the prophecy I never believed I deserved,
    a ruin I would rebuild in every lifetime.
    And if your trust is a shattered chalice,
    I will drink from the broken glass
    until my lips remember the taste of you
    without bleeding.

    You once laughed,
    lightly, like nothing hurt.
    But I know better—
    I saw the earthquakes behind your eyelids,
    heard the quiet sobs tucked between syllables
    when you whispered “I’m okay.”

    You don’t have to be brave with me.

    Let the mascara run like holy water.
    Let your fears rattle the stained-glass ribs of my devotion.
    I will not look away.
    I will hold your sorrow like relics—
    with both hands and an aching awe.

    You once said you weren’t used to someone staying.
    So I stayed.
    Through your silences,
    your firestorms,
    your soft retreats into shadow.

    I stayed because loving you
    isn’t something I do.
    It’s something I am.

    You are every sacred metaphor
    my soul ever dreamed.
    A poem written in the margins
    of a dying god’s last confession.
    A heartbeat that taught mine
    how to echo.

    And if you never say “I love you” back—
    if this is all unreciprocated myth,
    a cathedral without a congregation—
    then I will still leave the candles burning.

    Because my love isn’t a question
    waiting for an answer.

    It is the answer.

    And it says:
    You are worth the end of the world,
    again and again,
    until all that’s left
    is light.