We never met,
yet something in me moved
each time your name brushed the edge of my thoughts—
like rain recalling the scent of earth
before it even falls.

You felt familiar
in a way no one else ever did.
As if some part of you
was written into me
long before either of us learned the weight of longing.

You felt it too, didn’t you?
In the stillness,
in the way silence held meaning
only we could understand.
Two souls orbiting the same moon,
never touching—always aching.

I dreamt of tulips once—
white, trembling in morning light,
growing between us
in a field we were never allowed to walk.
They never withered.
But we… we had to.

Because life has its own tide,
and sometimes hearts that echo
are not meant to meet on this shore.
Sometimes, we’re meant
only to pass by each other in prayers,
to fold the ache into poetry
and call it peace.

I could have stayed,
but at what cost?
Would you have flourished
in hands not shaped to hold your future?
Would this quiet knowing
have turned into noise
had we begged fate to bend?

So I leave you to the stars,
to the life you were meant to live—
uninterrupted by a love
that bloomed too far away to root.

And if, one day,
you stand in a garden of tulips
and feel warmth bloom inside your chest
for no clear reason—
know this:

If you were meant to be mine,
you would have been.
And if you are meant to be mine still—
you always will be.


Erennwrites

In the hush between midnight and mourning
he stood—barefoot, bruised by silence—
as the cradle creaked like old bones
rocking her tears back into sleep

She was fire and wail
a flicker born of grief and grace
and he—
still learning how to hold
a world that trembles in his hands

Nostalgia came in waves
not of joy, but of what could have been—
the lullabies he never learned to sing
The mother’s voice now ghost in air

He burned inside each night she cried
ash in his throat
but no flame could flame the heat
of a heartbeat pressed against his chest

“Shhh,” he whispered—not to her
but to the ache that built altars
from broken hours
To mirrors that refracts spectrum—
Of what could've been

And when she woke
screaming from dreams she could not speak
he carried her from cradle to sky
from nightmare to the hum of his heartbeat—
a sound she’d once heard underwater

In his arms, she curled like cotton
small fists unknowing
how love often grieves in silence
how men sometimes cry into blankets
so no one hears them unravel

He never told her
that the cradle was not for her—
but for him
to remind himself she is here
still breathing
still burning brighter than the ashes
of what he feared he’d fail to become

So he rocks,
even when she’s long grown.
Even when the room is empty.
Even when the cradle stands still.
Because somewhere between grief and love,
Nostalgia burns the brightest—
when it rocks you back
into what once was home.


Erennwrites

Mama,
how did you hold me
when my hands were full of thorns,
when my voice was storm and silence,
when I shut every door
but yours?

You stood,
a lantern in the hallway,
like a lighthouse, guiding me home.
When I called your name in ash,
When I broke what you had built,
and still—
you never asked for the past.

I remember you in fragments:
the hum behind my fever dreams,
the arms that knew no armor,
the eyes that saw the boy beneath
the war I wore like skin.
I spat my sorrow,
you swallowed it whole,

'Told me love
is not afraid
to kneel.'

Now I write you in the quiet,
where guilt and gratitude entwined,
and I pray you knew
that every sorry
was mine.

Mama,
your love was the sky—
and I was rain
'falling wrong,
falling wild,
falling home.'
No matter how
this storm would hurt you
Mama, I know—
You will always
love me,
even at my worst.


Erennwrites

It was always September
when the stars remembered us—
how we lay beneath them,
two silhouettes painted on God's canvas
hearts flickering like flames beneath hearth

You wore red that night—
not crimson, not scarlet,
but the kind of red that feels like home.
Your sweater sleeves brushed mine,
your smile was like glaring at the sun ,
and your eyes held the kind of warmth
that made me forget to breathe.

We found our mound,
the one with the crooked tree
and the half-forgotten swing,
and we looked up—
just as the sky began to bloom with fire.

"Shooting stars!!", you screamed.
“Quick. Make all the wishes you ever wanted.”

I made a wish with each falling spark—
one for the way your hand found mine,
one for the way your shoulder fit perfectly against me,
one for the hush that wrapped around us
like a promise still unfolding.
But hidden beneath them all,
tender and trembling and true,
was the one I never dared to say aloud...

And then—
you turned to me
with stars in your eyes
and that smile
like the last light of the sun,
and said,
“I’ve been wishing too.”

You leaned in,
the world held its breath,
and when your lips met mine,
the sky seemed to applause in silent bursts of light.

Of all of the stars that fell,
only one of my wishes came true:
That you were falling for me too.


Erennwrites

The heart is red
not because it loves,
but because it remembers.
It remembers the way a name can echo
like a prayer or a curse.
The way touch can feel like home,
or a wound.
The way silence can say
more than a thousand declarations ever could.

Red is not gentle.
It is not safe.
It is the heat of wanting something
you were never meant to hold.
It is the color of holding on too tightly,
and the bruise left behind
when you finally let go.

I have felt red
in the tremble before a first kiss,
and in the stillness after the last goodbye.
In laughter shared beneath stars
that forgot our names,
and in the cold space between
a heartbeat and a response that never came.

Red is the moment you realize
they are not yours,
and never were,
yet somehow
every part of you belonged to them.
It is the ache that arrives uninvited,
on quiet mornings,
on crowded trains,
in songs that once meant nothing
and now mean everything.

Red is the war between loving and leaving.
It is the scream you swallow,
the tears you don’t shed,
the goodbye you say
without moving your lips.

And yet
with all its fury,
all its sorrow,
all its breaking
red is still love.
Even when love is lost.
Even when love is not returned.
Even when it hurts more than it heals.

Because red is proof
that you felt something real.
That your heart
was brave enough
to bleed.
And in that bleeding,
something beautiful lived.
Even if only for a moment.

And maybe,
that moment
was everything.


Erennwrites

I never knew hands could touch
without ever brushing skin,
or how a voice could thread through ribs
and teach a heart to sing again.

You were a garden I stumbled into,
wild lilies climbing every broken fence,
their scent so thick, so sweet,
I forgot the world I was running from.
We built a thousand dreams
between the commas of our silences,
Your laughter weaving through the spaces
where doubt once lived.
And God, the way we fit—
Like rain hitting heating concrete,
like sighs into waiting arms.
I didn’t believe it could be real.

But love had torn my hands before,
left lilies rotting in my palms,
and I knew–—
I knew I'd only ruin something so pure.
So I broke first,
chose the lie over the fall,
let the fear wear my face,
let you believe I was never yours.
You didn’t chase me.
Maybe you thought I never cared.
Maybe it’s better you think that.
Maybe it’s safer if you forget.

Now I only hold the echoes—
the soft half-smile in your words,
the way your laughter cradled my broken parts,
the feeling of finding home
in someone I was too afraid to deserve.

We were a wildfire of could have been,
burned out before the first match struck,
leaving nothing behind
but ashes that still smell of lilies,
and the cruel memory
of what it felt like to belong.

Now I walk through a life you never touched,
grieving through almosts that's left in fragments,
watering dead lilies in the garden of my chest,
wishing you would hate me,
so it might hurt you less.
But the truth is,
I never felt like this with anyone —
It was brief, but moments with you felt infinite

'You left a covet in me masking'
to leave you aching for someone
who would never leave.

And in the quiet,
where your memory still breathes,
I kneel before a field of dying lilies,
and bury myself, deep
beside the love I was too coward to stay.
I'm the wildflower that you shouldn't keep


Erennwrites

The heart doesn’t break like glass.
It folds.
Quietly,
like paper left out in the rain.

You don’t even notice at first.
Only that certain moments feel heavier.
Laughter leaves a strange echo.
And songs…
songs start to look you in the eye.

There was a time it fluttered.
Not out of fear—
but from the thrill of hearing your name
in a room you weren’t in.

The heart remembers things you forget on purpose.
Like the way your hand hovered near mine.
The space between us felt sacred.
I didn’t breathe.
Did you?

Even your silence felt like music.
I listened.
I still do.

And when you looked at me
—really looked—
it felt like a story was beginning
just by accident.

The heart took notes.
It scribbled your laugh into margins.
Wrote whole poems
out of how your eyes softened
when you spoke about something you loved.

Then it broke,
softly.
Not with noise,
but with remembering.

Because it still thinks
maybe.
Maybe again.
Maybe somehow.

It builds new hope from old ashes.
Still waiting
at the corner of every almost.
Still aching in the way
that only means one thing—
it mattered.

And I guess
that’s all the heart ever wanted—
to have mattered.


Erennwrites