He is the quiet kind of ruined.
The kind that doesn’t bleed, but decays slowly
beneath the skin. No one notices the way his hands tremble
when they’re not looking.
How he stares too long at nothing,
as if the silence is speaking back.
He’s mastered the art of being
unseen.

They say he’s calm.
Collected. Strong.
He won’t ask for help, but renders it instead
But strength is just another word
for silence
when no one is listening.

Inside,
he is all cracked glass—
one breath away from shattering.
He carries storms
like secrets in his chest.
Memories sharpened into weapons
he turns inward.

He doesn’t scream.
Because screaming would mean
He’s real,
and he’s been pretending for so long
he’s started to vanish
even to himself.

Some nights,
he feels it rising—
a pressure, a pulse,
like something terrible
trying to claw its way out.
But he swallows it down.
Always.
Because what if the breaking
never stops?
What if he becomes
everything he’s afraid of?

No one sees the ruin in his restraint.
How holding it in
has become its own kind of violence.
There is a war inside him
with no victor,
only ruin,
only wreckage.

One day,
he will not bend.
He will not warn.
He will simply
cease.
And it won’t be loud.
It’ll be the kind of quiet
that takes the air with it.
The kind that leaves people whispering,
“But he seemed fine…”

He always seemed fine, in his own prison.


Erennwrites

She entered like light, shimmering;
not the soft kind—
the kind that breaks through storm clouds,
uninvited, undeniable,
with a gaze that does not yield
There was fire in the way she stood still
As if silence bowed to her illumination
As if the world paused, just long enough
to take a breath around her bright presence

You’d think she's all thorns and torn—
but the truth is,
she holds more softness than most can carry
A kindness that doesn’t perform
It just exists
Like roots
Like rain on aching skin

She laughs like the sun forgotten it was tired
Unexpected. Wild. Unscripted.
A sound that stumbles into your chest
and stays there longer than it should
She doesn’t speak of what she’s survived
But you can see it in her eyes
In the way she doesn’t flinch anymore
In the way she still opens her heart
even when the world forgot to knock

When she loves—
there is no question
She loves in ways that re-write the meaning
No halves. No hesitations
Only the full ache of it
Only the surrender

And still, she stands—
not because it was easy,
but because she refused to disappear
She carved herself into something
unshakable
and beautiful
and entirely her own.
To know her
is to be reminded of life
Of how much light a soul can hold,
even after everything

And once you’ve seen her
truly seen her--
You never forget
You never want to


Erennwrites

White was the morning she walked away,
barefoot on cold tiles, carrying silence.
The sky had no color that day—
only the hush of something ending.

White was the page I never gave her,
the one that held everything I couldn’t say.
My hands trembled with the weight of it—
not the words,
but the years between us.

White is the silence that hums at dusk,
when the sky forgets its colors
and everything feels like remembering.

White is the dress on her wedding day
She left with winter in her eyes,
Walking down the isle, and I stood still,
watching her vanish into the light.

White is the flame I hold at night,
soft with sorrow, strong with light.
Not empty now, but full instead—
of hope, and love, and words unsaid.


Erennwrites

We met in coincidences—
Once in angst staring at the moon
Twice in silence glaring at the sun
Thrice under colored skies pretending not to watch.

Each time,
the universe held its breath.
Each time,
we let go too soon.

There were years between our names.
Other hands. Other homes.
Hearts that tried to forget
what never really left.

But I’ve learned—
what isn’t meant for you
will fight to leave.
And what is
will find its way back,
no map,
no warning,
just a pull.

So even if we part again,
even if time forgets our faces—
I’ll know:

'You are the return.
You are the thing that stays.'
Indefinitely


Erennwrites

You are the warmth in the serenity I never drank,
the final page of a novel I hold off reading
just to stretch the story one more night.
You are the lullaby I hummed when I forgot the lyrics
but remember the ache.

I think I’ve been writing to you in everything—
in the way I halt at fullstops
Because I'm afraid
there's always an end from a beginning
I do not know the color of your eyes,
but I know how they’ll light up when you speak of things you love.
I haven’t felt your hand in mine,
but I know how I’ll memorize the curve of your thumb
like it’s punctuation—
a comma in the sentence of my life
that says: pause here. something beautiful is coming.

If you’re wondering,
yes—
I’ve saved you all the best lines.
The ones that never made it into poems
because they were too soft, too sacred, too soon.
They live folded in my chest
like notes passed under desks in classrooms of longing.
I don’t send them,
because I want to give them to you in person—
when we are older,
and ready,
and brave enough to admit we were always meant to find each other
in a world full of almosts.

And when you arrive—
with your quiet eyes and your laugh that tastes like home,
don’t be surprised if I cry.
Not because I am sad,
but because it is a kind of grief
to wait so long for a face you already loved
in every stranger that almost looked like you.

To you, whom I haven’t met yet—
come slowly,
but come.
This heart has been keeping time in poetry,
and every line
has always led me to you.


Erennwrites