I was open before you,
No passwords, no keys, no locks.
I was unvarnished and credulous -
My heart was out, my soul had no blocks.

I was stark naked before you,
Without shyness and ceremony,
Not covered by lie, off laws and rules,
Either in passion, or in agony.

I was before you all as I am,
Every bit of me, of my body and soul.
I awaited. And I'm really tired.
My body's petrified in whole.

Black widow crawling up black vines,
expedition to your collarbones.
Crown of thorns pressed
against barbed wire
but neither of us bleeds.
Widows web resting
inbetween the lilies
adorning your hips.

If you glance southward,
a stabbed jester is crying,
bleeding out onto the meadow
surrounded by red wildflowers,
while the sun is shining bright
and the birds vanish into the clouds.
He's been like that for a while, I
doubt he'll ever stop. Or die.
"But don't worry!" he says,
"It's okay, it didn't hurt".

Black widow crawling up white flesh,
along the moths and butterflies,
across the imps and critters
landing just below the
tribal sigils planted
atop the hill.

Black widow is
squirming and writhing,
the two of you dancing in
splendid synchronicity. Flamenco,
with that reddened, swollen shell of yours
which I so deeply revere for its elegance.

In this tender moment,
the stars are immortal and
the moon faintly shrouds
the city in bone-white rays
of tragic incandescence.

Black widow retreats to its web and
the moths and butterflies have
gone to sleep now.
Rest easy, sweet
Hedone

Encased in gold resin,
The world we create
Older than you or I could ever say
It knows better than me of sure pain
Demanding your beauty
Still shadow the shame
When I wrote you –
I wrote you a letter today
I was lost in the infinite stretch of your gaze
And I wonder if it ever entered your air
Ever tasted your tongue, ever tousled your hair
Were they were words you would treasure?
Words you would share?
Like a picture, I'm taken
Because I am still there
Encased in your resin,
In the grip of your glare
It is a moment remembered
And I am still there

Focused but with ease I sit
in a spring-cushioned
armchair coated in
soft leather, dyed
a rich bordeaux.
Cigarette in one hand,
Negroni in the other,
Joint prêt sur la table.

The Ouroboros woman lay
across from me on the
méridienne.
Our eyes not breaking sight,
we're opposite anchors.

Pegs pulling
piano wire.

As the smooth tapestry
of her milky skin is caressed
by one wondrous instrument affixed
upon her slender forearm,
with extensions most
sensual, the other
one implores
herself in
glorious
fervour.

Joie de vivre,
as close as you
can get, at least.

A tenebrous passion.
As thunderous as brief.
Adieux mon cœur,
ma jolie,
Élise.

The sky is dark and gray,
with little hints of fading rays.
My jeans are soaked from the stubborn rain
as I move through traffic’s lane.

Loneliness hums in quiet loops,
My mind rewinds old nested truths.
Perhaps this weather fits me well,
I mutter low, with no one to tell.

I too reach out for something true.
To hold, to keep, to carry through.
To feel, to fly, to simply be,
Like wind-swept grass that runs with me.

And maybe hope’s still in my chest.
A part of me that never left.

Built for the Fire (more than ever)

I could stay numb.
I know how.
I’ve done it—
sat in the quiet aftermath,
let the weight of loss press me still.

It’s safe there,
in the ache that asks nothing.
No risk,
no rejection,
no reminders of what we once had.

But I wasn’t built for numb.

I was built for heat,
for tongue and lip against skin,
for tangled sheets and laughter
that opens something holy inside.
For conversation that strips the armor
and hands that say
you’re not alone here.

So no—
I won’t shrink.
I won’t hide behind the ruin.

I want love again.
Not the edited kind—
not filtered, polite, or halfway.
I want the messy, honest kind,
the kind that sees me, stays, and builds.

I want closeness that burns with truth,
touch that doesn’t just touch skin,
but says something deeper,
says you matter. You’re real. I’m here.

I want to risk it all again—
not because I forget the pain,
but because I remember the feeling.
What it’s like to be alive in someone’s arms.
What it’s like to look across the room
and know: this moment, right now, is everything.

Yes, I’ve been hurt.
Yes, the loss nearly wrecked me.
But I refuse to stay frozen.

It’s human to want love.
To crave the sacred electricity
of closeness, of presence,
of hands and lips and hearts saying
let’s try again.

So if I love again—
and I will—
it will be fully,
boldly,
fiercely.

Because even after all I’ve seen,
I still believe:
there’s nothing braver
than choosing love
when you know exactly
what it can cost—
and you do it anyway.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

The Hug That Never Happened

They sat in silence, inches apart,
Two aching chests, one broken heart.
A single word could bridge the gap,
But pride stood tall, a cruel mishap.

The morning light through curtains poured,
Like grace that neither one implored.
A touch, a glance, a soft “I’m sorry”—
Could’ve rewritten all the story.

She brushed her teeth, stared at the stream,
He watched the wall, lost in a dream.
Each waiting for the other’s cue,
To do what both just meant to do.

A hug—just that. No grand parade.
No speeches long, no debts repaid.
Just arms around and tempers softened,
The kind of peace they’d both forgotten.

But silence grew where love had been,
A slow erosion, paper-thin.
And lawyers came with suits and sighs,
To drain their banks and split the ties.

No scandal flared, no great affair,
Just missed connections, vacant stares.
The final line, a quiet shrug—
All for the lack of just one hug.

Now a year has passed, and so has he—
The boy who once sat on their knee.
He builds his walls with heavy care,
Afraid of love that won’t be there.

He flinches when voices start to rise,
He searches truth behind goodbyes.
He wonders why the warmest homes
Can turn to halls where no one roams.

His laughter, once so quick to bloom,
Now echoes softer in his room.
He says he’s fine, but in his eyes—
You see the cost of grown-up lies.

And they—the two who chose to part,
Now carry shards inside their heart.
Two separate lives that once were whole,
Now ghosted by a half-lived soul.

They fake their smiles, they learn to cope,
They grip at joy, they reach for hope.
But every quiet night reveals
A wound that time just never heals.

They’ll build new paths, they’ll find their way,
But something pure got lost that day.
For all the things they rose above—
They’ll never quite outrun that love.

Two people who will always ache,
For what they lost, and didn’t take.
And all because, when push had come,
They chose the cold and not the hug.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved