Fire Through the Screen

Miles of sand, a war-torn sky,
And still, it’s you who floods my mind.
Your face lit soft in pixel light,
A ghost of touch in desert night.

You whisper low, your voice like fire,
Each breath a spark, each word desire.
My hands can’t reach, but still they ache,
For every curve I cannot take.

Your beauty glows through static haze,
A sun that burns in far-off days.
I watch you move, a sacred spell,
A private world where bodies dwell.

You tease the straps from sun-kissed skin,
And I forget the world I’m in.
No bombs, no guns, just you and me,
Two souls undressed by memory.

I talk you through with hungry eyes,
You answer back in breathless sighs.
The screen between us can’t divide
The fever rising deep inside.

This isn’t just some fleeting thrill—
It’s need, it’s love, it’s wanting still.
To claim you whole, to taste your name,
To feel you burn and do the same.

And though you’re half a world away,
We keep the dark and cold at bay.
Through cords and keys and whispered pleas,
We love in digital release.

Come home to me—my heart, my flame.
Until you do, I’ll speak your name
Into the night, into the fire,
With every pixel, every desire.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

After the War, the Work

You came home not to silence—
but to sirens in your sleep.
Not to parades or picnics,
but to nights too dark, too deep.

The fourth of July felt like mortar rounds—
I held you as you hit the ground.
Neighbors smiled, lit fuses bright,
but I saw the panic flood your sight.

No one told them the war comes home.
That heroes flinch when fireworks groan.
That strength sometimes means shaking hands,
and needing help just to stand.

You tried to teach again—
chalk instead of chains,
kids’ laughter instead of drills,
but they sent you packing all the same.

Said “contract’s done,”
like your worth could expire.
But I’ve seen you walk through fire.
You don’t fold—you rise higher.

We fought back, side by side—
me, your shadow, your anchor, your guide.
Letters, calls, protests made—
we turned quiet pain into loud crusade.

And you stood there—tired, proud,
in front of that cold, gray crowd.
Not with rage, but steady breath,
proof that healing isn’t death.

I hold you close when sleep won’t come,
when thunder rolls and hearts go numb.
You were a soldier, still are to me—
in classrooms, in courtrooms,
in therapy.

The war is over, they like to say,
but I see it in you every day.
And still—you teach, you fight, you try.
My warrior in the softest light.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

The Space Between Sand and Skin

You kissed me in camo beneath morning light,
Orders in hand, boots laced up tight—
New ring still warm on your finger’s grace,
Gone too soon, with fire on your face.

You left for a land of endless dust,
While I stayed back with memory’s rust.
The house is haunted not by ghosts,
But echoes of what I feared the most.

Your scent on sheets, your laugh in rooms,
Wake the war drums, old perfume—
I tried to bury all that hell,
But love like yours became the shell.

Nights drag slow through sleepless fights,
Flashbacks lit by bathroom lights.
I count each breath, I grip the floor,
Then whisper your name like a whispered war.

But God—when you’re back for those fleeting weeks,
No words, just skin, no need to speak.
You crash into me like the ocean’s roar,
I drown in you, beg, and ask for more.

Your body—battle-hardened, bold—
Takes me places I used to hold.
In that heat, we shed the weight,
Of every bomb, every twist of fate.

Then gone again—you disappear—
And I’m left clutching what feels like fear.
But this time love is my parade,
And in its arms, I’m less afraid.

Come back to me, my fire, my flame—
Each day I wait, I whisper your name.
You wear the uniform, I wear the scars,
But we still meet beneath the stars.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

I stand inviaible in the road.
Frozen in place.
Frozen in thought.
I have misplaced all sounds.

Soldiers pull their bleeding brother out an RG-33 vehicle
in a flowing current of hands and fingers.
gentle, urgent
They hand him off to a swarm of medics then collapse into a grieving cloud of cigarette smoke

The pants and boots—especially the boots—are coated thick with blood
so fresh, so bright
My mind defrosts, gathers a voice to shatter the silence
What a beautiful color

Who is the man weilding my gun
when time stops and holds its breath?
Cold hate runs in his veins—
steady, unflinching death.

Engines roar, radios chatter—
Silent! Vision, sharp and thin.
All existence is ending
the threat closing in.

Thumb pushes the safety—
click
Center mass. Steady. Hold breath.
Squeeze.

Who wore my skin?
Foe? Friend? Truly me?
Will I ever see him again—
Bold stranger, powerful-- fear free?

Everything was so horrible
That words stood beside me and gaped
At a life so cruel.