More Alike Than We Knew
We once burned like wildfire caught,
No hesitation, second thought.
We built a world in gasps and skin,
A sacred place we both fit in.
Before the war, before the grief,
Before the silence stole belief—
We lived like nothing could divide
The way your soul once moved with mine.
But then the war pulled you away,
And I stood still while skies turned gray.
When you came back, you weren’t the same—
And neither was I, if I’m being plain.
I wore a uniform too long,
And braved the frontlines, stayed strong.
But still, the dust stayed in my chest,
Long after I was told to rest.
Then came the bridge, the twisted steel,
The weight of death I couldn’t heal.
The sirens, smoke, the eerie screams—
They still show up inside my dreams.
And COVID took the last of me—
The halls of death, the constant plea.
Masked and moving, heart on fire,
Another loss, another pyre.
You had your ghosts—I had mine too,
But we both thought we had no clue.
We passed like strangers in one space,
Each hiding panic in our face.
I thought you’d shut the door on me.
You thought I needed to be free.
But truth is, love—we both withdrew,
And we were more alike than we ever knew.
I swallowed pain, you turned away.
Both thinking, “They don’t want to stay.”
But every time we didn’t speak,
We built the wall another week.
We made love soft, then not at all.
You blamed the world. I blamed the wall.
But deep beneath the days we lost,
We never stopped. We just paid the cost.
We could have fixed it, if we dared—
To say we broke, to say we cared.
To hold each other past the pride,
And cry for what we kept inside.
But trauma doesn’t knock or ask,
It buries truth behind a mask.
And though we both were bleeding through,
We never said, “I see you too.”
Still, I remember how you burned,
And how my hands to you returned.
And somewhere deep, I know it’s true:
I was more like you…
And you were more like me too.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Grieving over what may have been yet is now impossible. Was always trying to encourage them to write!!! and longing to show them what I did in my head (and on paper) while cycling all those hours.
