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Evelyn Hew Poem
I have loved like windows love the morning-
quietly, without asking to be noticed,
just hoping someone would open them.
There were nights
when the moon knew more about me
than anyone ever would-
how I curled inward,
folding grief into origami birds,
sending them across invisible winds
toward the edge of forgetting.
I have lost things I never held-
names, chances, whole lives
that might've been mine
in another version of the world.
And yet I still dream in color.
There is a longing
that does not shout
but lingers in doorways
-in the way I hesitate
before saying I'm Fine
It builds altars out of absence
and worships with quiet hands.
But healing,
it does not arrive like spring.
It comes with the slow thaw of winter-
a drip,
a pause,
another drip.
Some days, I am the storm.
Others, the shore that survives it.
I have learned to carry my name
without apology,
to wear my scars
as punctuation marks-
not endings,
but proof that the story moved forward.
And if I ever forget who I am,
let me return to the silence-
not to disappear,
but to listen
to the heartbeat beneath the noise.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
I present
my strategy:
a dignified tower
constructed entirely
of questionable choices
and one slightly hopeful
thought.
I sit beside it,
perfectly docile,
like a guard dog that
only guards snacks
and even then
not well.
then comes
the facetious
breeze—
that tiny smirk
the universe gives
right before nudging
and the
tower
leans—
leans—
le—
a n d
I
p r e t e n d
t h i s
w a s
m y
p l a n
a l l
a l o n g.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
one thread
unravels
quietly
from the cuff
of yesterday—
loose and golden,
tugged gently
by wind
or memory.
another thread,
silver-fine,
winds forward
into what might be
tomorrow,
still unwoven,
still soft with
silence.
time does not run;
it is stitched—
moment to moment,
strand to strand,
through every glance,
every breath,
every choice
you never realized
you were making.
there are knots:
places where two lives
touch and tighten.
places where
the pattern breaks,
frays, forgets itself—
and others
where it mends
with color.
the past is not gone;
it is threaded through you,
hidden in the seams
of your skin,
tucked in the hem
of your voice
when you say their name.
you walk wrapped
in stories
you don't remember telling,
stitched tight with the
hands of those
you never knew.
(and still,
somehow,
you knew them)
the threads twist—
through journals and old songs,
through maps and postcards,
through laughter echoed
across generations—
they pass through rings,
through cracked clocks,
through names etched
in notebooks
and photographs.
time does not move forward.
it weaves.
in loops and overlaps,
in tangles and designs
we can only see
when we stop
and trace
with wonder.
so pull a thread,
any thread—
and feel the hum
of centuries
beneath
your fingertips.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
Tall
and
still as
the sun burns
high above, the
dry earth cracks
with thirst. A lone
cactus stands,
its arms raised
to the sky, seeking
the rain that
never comes.
Shadows stretch
long across the
sand, the wind
whispers soft
secrets,
and time stands
still in the heat
of the day.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
Dark
shapes
twist and
crawl in the
corners of my
mind. Silent
whispers fill
the air, cold
and choking.
A breath
catches, then
slips away as
I reach for the
light that’s too
far to touch.
Eyes watch
from the
depths of the
void. I can’t
move, can’t
scream. I'm
trapped inside
the suffocating
storm of my
own fear, lost
in a place where
shadows never
leave and hope
fades to dark.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
You are the light that fills my days,
the warmth that wraps around my soul.
In your eyes, I find a home, a place where
time stops and hearts speak in whispers only
we can hear. Love grows like roots beneath
us, deep and quiet, but strong enough to
lift us when we fall. In your touch, I feel
the pulse of the world, beating with the
promise of forever, tender and true.
Together, we are whole, as one, in love,
always.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
The light withdraws—
not abruptly, but with the grace
of someone tiptoeing from a room
where memory sleeps on every windowsill.
Sky smears gold across the edges of goodbye,
and rooftops inhale the hush of coming dark.
The world holds its breath
while shadows begin to
slip silently
from the ankles of trees.
They stretch and reach,
curling like ink spilled in reverse,
writing forgotten things in soft grey,
and I watch—
not with fear,
but with the ache
of remembering what I never quite knew.
In the hush,
the shadows begin to whisper.
Not in words, but in movements—
a tilt of a leaf,
the sway of a branch,
the slight retreat of warmth from the stones,
the silence between wingbeats.
They speak of things
the sun never says aloud—
of old stories kept in bark and moss,
of the names of winds no longer called,
and dreams that folded themselves
into the creases of dusk.
Somewhere,
a child once stood on a porch,
counting stars before sleep claimed her.
Somewhere,
a letter waits unopened,
the ink slightly blurred from time,
its promises softened by shadow.
And in the violet distance,
twilight walks barefoot
across the fields of once-was.
It hums.
Not a lullaby,
not quite a dirge,
but something in between—
the hymn of in-betweenness,
the breath
before
the dream.
And as the sky exhales its final gold,
and night opens its dark and endless wings,
I listen.
I listen
to the
whispering
shadows
in
twilight.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
And I remember the rain before it ever started—
the smell of asphalt humming like old vinyl static under my ribs.
You were talking about birds, maybe,
or death, or the last time your mother called, and
I wasn’t listening,
because I was thinking about a dream
where the walls kept pulsing like lungs
and my teeth floated away on tiny rafts
made of gum wrappers and apologies.
And I thought:
How did we get so tired
without ever running?
There’s a window I keep forgetting to close,
and a silence shaped exactly like your absence
folded into the corners of this room,
like the way a spider folds its legs in when it dies—
which is not a metaphor,
but maybe it is.
Everything becomes a metaphor eventually:
grief,
joy,
you.
And I keep writing you in lowercase,
because capitals feel too loud for something
I only whisper in the dark—
something like: stay,
something like: I was never good at doors,
or goodbyes,
or staying still long enough to hear the echo.
The clock has no hands tonight,
and time tastes like metal in my mouth.
The moon keeps peeking like a guilty lover,
and I say: I know.
And I say: It’s okay.
But I don’t know.
And it’s not.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
t a p
tip tap
p l i n k
the first drops
come dancing
across tin roofs,
windowpanes,
wide leaves,
bare skin—
tapping out
their quiet
language
on everything
we forgot
to feel.
the wind
turns the sky
into a drum
and each raindrop
a fingertip
playing jazz
on the glass
of the world.
they leap from gutters
swirl in sidewalk puddles
splash laughter on parked cars
and pirouette off petals
like ballerinas
practicing joy.
some fall
straight,
obedient to gravity
but others—rebels—
bounce,
skip,
twist,
spin.
they don’t fall.
they dance.
and every drop
carries a secret rhythm,
a soft choreography
of chaos and calm—
a memory of oceans,
a kiss of cloud-breath,
the sigh of sky.
listen—
not just with ears,
but with skin,
with soles of feet,
with the space
behind your eyes.
the rain is not noise;
it is message.
not a storm;
a ceremony.
and when you step out
into its music,
don’t run.
don’t hide.
just lift your face,
and dance.
let the world
drip
drip
drip
away—
and become
the rhythm
of rain.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
Once, I sang without thinking—
notes spilling like sunlight
through trembling leaves,
a language woven from breath and wind,
a melody that painted the endless sky,
dancing on the morning breeze,
weaving stories of hope and light.
My voice was free,
each note a flickering flame,
threading the world together
from dawn’s first blush
to twilight’s soft sigh,
lifting hearts and stirring dreams
with the simple gift of song.
But then silence came—
quiet as falling feathers,
heavy as the weight of absence,
and my song slipped away,
lost in shadows deeper than night,
a voice swallowed whole by the void,
leaving hollow spaces where music lived.
I searched the empty air,
reaching for scattered notes,
trying to gather the melody
that once filled mornings with hope,
but silence held me captive,
an invisible cage made of absence,
where sound dissolved like mist at dawn,
and echoes faded before they could be heard.
Days passed like restless wings
beating against unseen glass,
and I became still,
listening not for my voice,
but for the pulse beneath the quiet—
the soft rustle of life awakening,
the gentle glow of dawn’s early light,
the fragile hope that a song
might one day be born anew.
Sometimes, when the wind shifts just right,
I catch the echo of a forgotten note—
soft, fragile, like a long-lost sigh,
calling me back to the place
where music waits beneath loss,
and silence is only a pause
between the beats of a hidden heart.
Even in silence,
there is rhythm—
a heartbeat beneath stillness,
waiting patiently
for its voice to return,
for wings to spread wide
and songs to soar once more.
One day, my song will rise again—
soft at first,
a trembling note born of longing,
growing stronger,
spreading wings of sound
across the empty sky,
filling the world
with melodies I thought lost forever,
a chorus of hope reborn from quiet.
Until then, I remain—
a bird with quiet wings,
carrying the memory of music in my bones,
and the promise that silence
is never the end,
only the breath before a new beginning.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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