To feel deeply in this world is to bleed slowly.
It is to walk through fire with bare feet
while others praise the virtue of numbness.

They say: Don’t love too much.
Don’t care too loudly.
Don’t be the one who stays when it’s easier to leave.

But I have never been able to touch halfway.
My love is ruinous.
I enter like a cathedral collapses—
all at once, with smoke and sacred noise.

I fall in love like it’s a calling,
like God Himself whispered their name into my ribs
and told me:
Here. This one. Burn for this one.

And I do.
Even when the world hands me a thousand reasons not to.
Even when it tells me connection is a game,
hearts are currency,
and tenderness is a flaw
to be corrected.

But I was not made for apathy.
I was not made for clever texts and ghosted evenings.
I was made for aching truth,
for eyes that don’t look away,
for conversations that scrape the soul clean.

I do not want half of anyone.
I want the whole,
even if it wounds me.

Because what is the point of living
if we are not willing to suffer
for something sacred?

They say:
You care too much.
As if it were a weakness.
As if they have not read the Psalms—
as if Christ did not sweat blood in the garden
out of love for a world
that would spit in His face.

There is glory in feeling it all.
Even when it rips you open.
Especially when it rips you open.

Let them scoff.
Let them sleepwalk through their half-lives.
I will keep loving like it matters.
Because it does.
And someone must remember.

He said:
Have you noticed how the sun commands the sky
bold, blazing, untouchable?
She smiled:
And how the moon listens
soft, steady, and never once needing to burn?

He said:
Fire must be a man - restless, hungry, loud.
She replied:
Then water is surely a woman
quiet, patient, but strong enough to carve canyons.

He teased:
Isn’t logic masculine?
She countered:
Only if emotion is feminine
and both are useless without the other.

He smirked:
Strength is a man’s trait.
She tilted her head:
Yet childbirth is not for the weak.

He whispered:
Desire… now that must be a woman.
She leaned in:
And control? That, my dear, is a man’s fantasy.

He said:
Betrayal wears a woman’s perfume.
She said:
And vengeance wears a man’s cologne.

He said:
War is written in a man’s script.
She replied:
But peace is cradled in a woman’s hands.

He paused, then confessed:
The world may have been built by men…
She completed him:
But it is held together by women.

They sat in silence,
neither victorious,
both understood.

Because every question seeks to conquer -
and every answer longs to heal.

Dear Bosco?
'I know not why I feel warmth with your
presence, I know not why I feel breeze on my face with no wind present'.
An improvisational line to woo, I suppose?
But without intention, if I were to swear on it I would,
something of my subconscious?

With the future's eye I could see why those lines formed the way they
did (The warmth was from the alcohol
but the tension was sharper than your teeth
scraping my tongue)
I told you about it, my mind knows me more than I know it,
to the point of punishing me for unknown wrongs in dreams,
it must have known you before your lips knew me.

I told you I was afraid to be myself,
but I swear on my dead body I was nothing
If not my whole self,
though subdued through sleepiness, I rather
would want to get swathed
and swayed with your warming flesh.

I could’ve sworn I died in your arms this beyond late
night,
But with your tender lips it rejuvenated life at the same
time, 'I know not why'

Did I clumsily forget to mention the errors in my thoughts?
Your mind surely should have told you.

You asked me what I was thinking while I avoided the
deathly gaze in your eyes,
I said, 'of us', to things of that nature.
I asked the same, you said of nothing, just of us now.
Are you here with me? Are you?

You cheeky doll.
A mint before commitment, a premeditated attack, an
ambush.
Though not of undesirability, an ambush still.
Forcing my hands to touch yours while we sat in tender voices,
nature, pool, city, and the wandering fellow, observing
My nature against yours, yours against mine.

Talking hopefully useful information to invest in, for
Future reference right? (I hope she is not testing me)
Exchanging hopefully meaningful gifts, a promise pick, and a
reference from me to your favourite love song, lollipops and crisps.
Oh, how I wish for it to remain a love song.

You talk of my band and I talk of your films,
'Just make like -- 3 songs, and the rest can be covers',
A ****** camera or a good one;
You preferred ******, it adds more character apparently, I say
It's cute.
The greatest pretentious exchange of art kids
Ever.

A brush on the shoulders, our minds' leaves caressing each
other,
A bold grab of our teasing hands with your notion,
You tuck my hair behind my ears and I get shy as I for one
hide my face with it,
I ask, why?
'I just want to see you'.

(Do you really want to see me? Me
with all of my faults, do you want to unravel me naked?
Do you want to see me ****?
Stripped off all my accessories that hide my paling ****** soft skin?
The soft '******' skin that is still scarred)

You close your eyes and with your lead I shall do no
harm,
The lips entertaining, the tongues befriending,
the passing of saliva,
(Does she not know I have a sore throat now, all exchanges
must have forbearance and reception)

With that exchange for 4 days, I've known her 4 years,
never have I felt intimacy to that degree.

Breathe in, breathe out,
In, and out,
Take me in, and take me out,
keep me in,
Let me kiss you quicker so you won't see
my face.

Your lips,
they hold me everywhere else on my face, (why does she not care of
its dreading spots)
nose, cheek, forehead, they appreciate you more than me,
I ****** on your fingers, must've been my
subconscious,
outwardly showing you my need from reciprocation,
and you learn fast as you send nerve signals I couldn't
have possibly ever perceive with touch like yours.

(Have I imagined her?
My subconscious torturing me once more,
conjuring the facsimile of my desires,
and punishing me with making you hold me)
They would not understand you
like I do,
till' they witness your might.

Take charge, take seize, but
hold,
Let me,
Let my teeth grab your neck
Let my hand touch yours
Let my fingers linger on your palm,
Let my soul erupt in your mouth,
Let me pin you on the railing, bear your hips,
Let me adore you

I wish I could've stayed, and I wished
you wished the same;
The short euphoria I experienced I needed, and I crave you
more now.

I could've sworn our bodies were one of itself in our last
draws of breaths
If you breathe mine in I will do the same
If I call you by my name You will do the same. (I hope
she calls no other
by hers)

With your malicious eyes, fuzzy brows, flaming
hair that hell cannot explain,
menthol lips,
With your uttered words: 'You poor boy',
You've made a lover of me,
An acceptor of me,
The talker of me,
The writer of me,
The dreamer of me,
A father of me,
The worrier of me,
The lover of me

'What would be the name of our movie be called?' I asked
as if I had not fantasised of asking you
a few days prior.
I hope you mean it, because like it or not, you've attached
this song to me as much as I've been attached to you,
(The cheeky girl played it before our reciprocal breaths)

And now here I am,
sad and craving,
in your absence.
I truly wish you meant what you said,
I truly wish you understood my heart when you
said it was beating so fast.

I must not suppress my emotions,
as Elio's dad says: 'To make yourself feel nothing
so as to not feel anything -- what a waste!';
So I will follow his advice as I've told you my
Father is but a *******,
My emotions are unsurpassed, unraveled,
For you,
These emotions I will never feel again, they
change, evolve, devolve, degrade, falter,
So I must recite it to my heart's will as you
know it beats fast for you.

I needed to write this to me, from you,
'Else I would be holding me hostage choking the remnants of
memories of you. I smile as I feel this grief.

I will not deny you, I will not deny me.
I will not deny your jaw,
teeth, flavour, hips, smell, eyes, brows, hips, breath
voice, passion, initiative, stories, mind,
love.
I will not deny my shivering jaw, my
sunken brows,
my aching belly,
my strained throat,
my dulling eyes,
my tricky mind,
my yearn, my
love.

So be it, I'll wait.
As our song states, True Love Waits.
The haunting echoes of his voice breaks me,
Do you love the song more than ever?
More importantly, do you believe in the song as you say it
is your favourite from the band? I
will play our song with your pick,
And I pray you learn it
with mine.

Whatever, I told you of the mess I am, or
maybe not (at the very least implicitly)
and I was just dreaming

This is not a closure, not acceptance, I will
go as you ebb.
Just, don't leave.
Don't,
Leave.

in better times, I remember I
began getting quite arrested, like
a ****** susp., by
Harmonía, which keeps serving
to this day as a source of both psychic sunlight
and real enjoyment (sometimes)
which is somewhat funny co[ɑ]mbined
with the fact it was a summer month I
started getting more in—volved in thI̲s diversion
summer twenty fourteen
which means she's something I have bE̲E̲n exploring
for... um... already more than
a decade, like rotten souls of autocratic rogues
["decayed"]
but it's a mite bigger story
given the fA̲ct I'd known
and been sort of into her some years before then
she can be so diverse, from natural
to artificial & including parts of both
plenty of heartbeat types & tempos
and vibes: from nice & mellow
to harsh & evil, from bright to dismal
from refined & regal to energized & feral
she can pep up automotive-buzz-replete strolls
she's there for you in times you feel low
and any kind of insult is something she won't
ever do, unlike a lo[ɑ]t of people; I can hardly be called
jolly, like a harlequin lo[ɑ]cked within walls
of a go[ɑ]ddamn mental
["Harley Quinn"; "Gotham"]
asylum, but I'm undisputably
glad there was an o[ɑ]pportunity
for me to be introduced to her
and all the gO̲O̲d 'bout her cited through the verse
is why I'm glued to her, like a woman's fourth
point of contact
["glutes o' her"]
not a single day of mine is thrO̲U̲gh sans her
but if you think I'm alluding to[—]wards
a close other, you have sure
misunderstood the verse (some of it)
[Unlike Pluto has a tune being, as it's stated by him, "a love song as a metaphor for alcoholism"]
[it's called "Ethel", which is a homophone for "ethyl"]
————————————————————————————————
for I'm not one with a people-oriented frame
of mind, but a music nerd
with a broad extent of taste
for music, but one whO̲ prefers
mostly middle-paced
and boomy forms
of it, such as midtempo bass
midtechno, EDM glitch hop, moombahcore
drift phonk "*******", like a *****'s brain
moombahton, & 2000s reggaeton
but some years ago, when old & new reports
of injustices of the human world
next to the discontent of daily adult-hood were serv—
—ing as ****** fuel in terms
of the ignition of the stupid urge
to get something (boo!) destroyed
to bring against injustice-contributing jerks retribution earned
a craze for more dark-sounding, brutal sorts
of tunes was formed as a substitution for
destruction, like any amusement's purp.
["distraction"; "purpose"]
along with music, another gO̲O̲d means for
getting through the murk
has been, like when a whip's coming thrO̲U̲gh keen curves
sideways with its wheels sliding through the course
of it, creative writing, putting words (mislead)
["creative riding"; "ᵖᵤᵗᵢⁿ words"]
into this seductive-looking form (indeed)
————————————————————————————————
and I really was thinking after the last-done work
(that killing joke tale)
that I won't manage to craft one more (usual thoughts)
took 3 & a half months burned (for the most part)
and the thought of o[ɑ]bligation to wha[ʌ]t's been saving
me from ending up in a darker place in
order to undertake an—other rhyme creation
(hopefully not the last one, but I can't be sure)

You left our bed at morning’s sigh,
A fleeting kiss, a soft goodbye.
The stars still clung to dawn’s sky,
Now tears and time just linger by.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

The bangles hum your name till dawn,
The shadows sway, their light withdrawn.
My soul’s a flame, its spark long gone,
Your absence weaves my fears till morn.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

The sheets still hold your fading warmth,
But cold winds chant a lonesome storm.
My heart, once full, now frays, forlorn,
Each clock’s slow tick a wound reborn.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

No message comes, no whispered word,
No echo from that town unheard.
My wedding joy, now grief’s own bird,
This bridal bloom, once bright, now blurred.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

I light the lamp, I breathe your name,
The night returns with wind and flame.
Alone, I bear a wife’s soft shame,
Yet in my heart, you’re still the same.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.



© Susanta Pattnayak

Summer Cut

The sun hangs low, a golden sigh,
As dusk rolls in across the sky.
We’re side by side in evening’s hum,
The mower growls, the constant drum.

You push the line with steady grace,
Sweat like diamonds on your face.
That tank top clings in all the right ways—
I pause my task, caught in a daze.

Your hips, the sway, the strength, the fire—
Even in work, you spark desire.
Each pass you make, each blade you bend,
Turns labor into sweet pretend.

I watch from far, heart in a race,
Wanting more than just this space.
Your body glows in fading light—
You, the heat, this perfect night.

We finish slow, the yard laid bare,
Your fingers pulling loose your hair.
You glance at me with that old spark—
And just like that, I lose the dark.

The hose runs cold, but the shower waits—
Steam will rise, as passion wakes.
Hands will find familiar skin,
And what we start out here, begins within.

The grass is done, the stars climb high—
But darling, it’s your moan, not the sky,
That I’ll replay when day is through—
You, the night, and all we do.

© 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.