The new year arrives not with thunder, but with a whisper—soft, persistent, and unyielding.
It carries the weight of time gone by, the fragments of moments we let slip like sand between careless fingers.

Regret lingers like an unspoken truth, a shadow cast by the light of what could have been. We try to grasp it, to undo it, to reweave the threads of yesterday, but the loom has turned, and the past is a river that only flows forward.

Time was never ours to hold. It was a fleeting metaphor, a borrowed grace we misused with the arrogance of eternity. Hours became currency we spent too freely, years became chapters we didn’t bother to read.

But the clock does not pause.
It does not mourn. It ticks with indifference, a steady cadence reminding us of the gift we still possess: the present.

If the past is a lesson and the future a promise, then this moment is the altar on which we lay our resolve. To forgive ourselves. To treasure the seconds. To write poetry where there was silence.

For though time does not turn back, it offers something greater
a chance to begin again.
And in this beginning, perhaps,
we can finally learn to live.





                                            @Erennwrites

When all is done
It’s never really done.
Really.
You often asked yourself
'Will I see her again?'
That’s not impossible in vivid reveries
But it’s still a lie.
Creating that illusion in your head
Reversing time repetitively and everything will be as it is
The way you wanted it to be.

Speculating if your love for her
Was being marked for invalidity
Moments imparted on phases that matters most
The smell of berries in her hair
That fiery gold in her eyes
That emphatic touch that never waned
'But why so soon?'

You tried to run
But you can’t
Despite hiding in your illusory canopy
These fragments aren't real anymore
It was.

You tried rendering it to someone else
But you pushed them away
Not letting them in
But you realized those feelings were real
This new beginning was real
But you shut everyone out
Leaving that void of obscurity in your head

Your heart’s barely pumping
Every second mattered
Contemplating if it’s easy to plummet down from here
Now you’re thinking with your heart
Not your head
It doesn't make any sense
Because you created that
You chose to be this way

You just wanted to be with her
Just one day.
Again.

But you can’t
It’s not real anymore
It will never be.
Because it’s gone.
She’s gone.
Forever.


Erennwrites

Clenched fists armouring this will
Thoughts inverse with no given time
Etched to seek this onus regime-
Of clouded fears of clouded minds
Manifested dreams into demise
Yet pretense lure out what is candor
Pain was imminent to forsee
But truth remains the same
Pure of innocence hemmed
Heart of steel mettled with will
Burning the hays of shame
Impelled,
no longer needing the anchor
In darkness reign wars will end
The spark will flame again


@Erennwrites

Under the hush of midnight’s breath,
she walks—umbrella in hand,
not for the rain,
but to hold back the weight
of a thousand watching stars.

Constellations whisper
stories of love stitched in light,
but none are hers.
They shimmer like promises
just out of reach,
their glow a quiet ache.

Her heart, a silent ember,
burns beneath the ribs’ cage—
never flickering,
never fading,
only waiting.

She is flame wrapped in longing,
guarded not by stars,
nor shelter of hands—
but by solace,
the only canopy
that keeps her whole.

And still, she burns—
not wildly,
but patiently,
for the one soul
who'll one day walk
through galaxies
just to meet her


Erennwrites

Raindrops kiss the earth,
he sits beneath the grey sky—
eyes still on the stars.

Clouds hide every light,
but he whispers to the dark,
“Maybe one will fall.”

Storms can’t shake his faith—
even meteors seem far,
but he waits, and waits.

The world says, “Give up.”
He only tightens his grip—
hope like fire inside.

Rain or stars above,
he believes in miracles—
even if they burn.


Erennwrites

He gave her orchids, not roses, not flame—
But quiet things, with roots that cling
To silent bark, and bloom in shade—
The way he loved, unseen.

She smiled like spring, but loved like wind,
Passing through without regret.
He stayed like dusk, holding the light,
Even as the sun forgets.

The others brought tangerines, bright and sweet,
Sun-kissed and easy to hold—
But he only offered orchids, slow to bloom,
In a language too patient, too old.

She never saw how he watered hope,
In a garden she never walked.
How he learned to speak her silences,
And answered when she never talked.

He watched her dance with summer hearts,
Each one burning out too soon—
Yet still, he kept the orchids near,
Blooming beneath a winter moon.

No final scene, no curtain fall,
No music swelled, no kiss—
Just him and orchids, year by year,
Tending love that she won’t miss.

Despite all this, always smiling
His love for her, unwavering.


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

Five years passing slow
love was never truly there
just a borrowed dream

Words once sparked the night
now drown in the quiet void
hearts speak different tongues

Each step feels like stone
a duty bound by routine
the spark long faded

"Reach for the infinite sun,"
She said, yet pulling the heavens
gravity of doubt

Two worlds side by side
beds cold, the nights stretch endless
their hands never meet

What is left but hope?
A tether to something gone
His mettle whispers, "Stay."

The moon rises, and with it, the weight of my sins.
I see the faithful rush to the masjid, heads high, hearts light—
while I stood here in the shadows, drowning in regret.
How many prayers have I missed?
How many whispers of mercy have I ignored?
How many times has my Lord called me back,
only for me to turn away?

Yet, Ramadan arrives like an old friend,
knocking at the door of my troubled heart.
I hesitate. Do I deserve this mercy?
Will Allah even listen to someone like me?
Hunger comes, thirst ensues,
and with every thorn pricked against my skin
I realized—this is not punishment.
This is love.

I sujud for the first time in months, maybe years.
My forehead presses against the earth,
and suddenly, I remember how it feels to be home.
Tears spill, fervid and unrelenting.
Ya Allah, I am broken.
Ya Allah, I am ashamed.
But Ya Allah, I am here.

The nights stretch my past, and so do my regrets.
I stand in the depths of Qiyam,
my voice trembling as I beg—
Don’t shun me away.
Don’t let me leave this month the same, again.

Then comes Laylatul Qadr,
the night that could erase everything,
the night that could rewrite my destiny.
My hands shake as I lift them.
What do I ask for first?
Forgiveness?
Guidance?
A heart that remembers Allah the way it should?

And then, like a gust of wind, Ramadan is gone.
The Eid moon shines, but my soul aches.
Not for the food, not for the thirst,
but for the nearness of Allah I fear I will lose.

I was a sinner.
I am still a sinner.
But in this month, I learned—
Allah’s mercy is greater than my sins.
And maybe, just maybe,
I'm not lost after all
I am reborn
I am found


Erennwrites

I have never been one for flowers,
but daisies—
they remind me of something familiar.

They do not boast like roses,
nor do they cling like vines.
They stand, steady and quiet,
rooted deep in the earth,
unshaken by the wind.

I’ve seen them in fields where boys once ran,
where laughter was careless,
where dreams were small but bright.
I’ve seen them by gravestones,
where men stood in silence,
hands in pockets, eyes heavy with things unsaid.

Daisies do not ask for admiration.
They bloom where they must,
where life places them—
by the roadside, in the cracks of stone,
in the hands of a child
who does not yet know their worth.

Perhaps men are like daisies,
weathered but standing,
never asking for much,
but always there


@Erenwrites

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

I built walls where bridges once stood
stone upon stone of my own making
a fortress of doubt, of fear, of pride—
until even the voices that called my name
sounded like ghosts in the distance

I had friends once, real ones
The kind who saw the storm in my eyes
and stayed to dance in the rain with me
The kind who knew my silence
wasn’t rejection, but a cry

But I let shadows whisper louder than love
let insecurity pull me toward hands
that never meant to hold me
I traded warmth for cold, truth for illusion
turned away from those who stayed
for those who never would

Now, the echoes of laughter haunt me
memories like open doors I closed too soon
Regret is a heavy thing
and silence heavier still
How do I find my way back
when I was the one who walked away

Would they still hear me
if I called their names again?


@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

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

All of my fragments lead me back to you
Despite it all—I know
It's always uncertain
to what we conceived may happen
Fate might be cruel but it's certain
To a degree that it can only be attained
if both are willing

Like tulips,
I'll make a world—
full of gardens full of you
I'll rain it all with my reign
to see you grow
But you will only look up to the sun

Conscious to believe
what is worth remembering
I'll never forget—
Your smile, your laugh, your dances
Your beautiful everything—
in everything that you do

Like the moon—
Cracked on crevices of his demeanor
Those are tears that dried up
That no longer perceived as ethereal
He can only refract from the sun

And you will never be mine
I have always known this
Your tulip heart—
only belongs to the sun


Erennwrites

It begins with a hush—
the kind that fills your chest,
right before the sky remembers
how to open its heart.

And then it starts—
light breaking through darkness
with no warning, no mercy.
It’s beautiful,
almost unbearably so.
You look up,
and for a second
you forget the silence
that comes after.

I held your hand once
beneath that color sky.
We didn’t speak.
There are no words
that can touch what it feels like
to watch something so eminent
already beginning to end.

That was us

All color,
all chaos,
flashes of everything we wanted to be
and knew we couldn’t hold.

You laughed,
and it cracked something in me.
Not because it wasn’t real—
but because it was.
'Real things don’t last
the way we want them to'

And still,
if I close my eyes—
I swear I can feel the heat
on my face,
like you never left.
Like we are still
watching the skies collide in pastel neons
Like the ending
was always worth
the wonder.

We loved like fireworks.
Loud.
Bright.
Gone.


Erennwrites

They said the rain would drown it—
that flames don’t last in storm
But still it burned, a quiet light
refusing to conform

The wind threw every sorrow
the night forgot its name
yet there it stood—
still trembling
a heart disguised as flame

Love didn’t ask for mercy
nor beg the skies to clear—
it burned not for the world to see
but just to persevere

And when the world forgets you—
'your laughter, tears, and pain,'
just like the ember that—
still burns in the rain
Let love be what remembers you
Be the heart that stays—
Always.


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

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

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

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

You bloom in places pain once lived—
soft, stubborn, beautifully brave

You laugh like nothing ever hurt,
then cry like everything did

You trip, you rise,
you call it clumsy—
'I call it love at first sight'

You're not just strong
You're a tulip in a thunderstorm,
Still choosing to bloom
Still choosing to love.


Erennwrites

I wasn’t born a poet,
but your silence turned into verses
in the pauses between your laughter
I never meant to memorize your face—
yet it lives behind every closed eyelid
tender as the hush before a kiss.

You wore the rain like a sari of stars
and when you looked back that one time
I forgot my name.
Your anklets were verses
my heart dared not write—
too sacred, too soft
too much like something I'd ruin
by touching.

I never knew love
until it sat beside me
on a red bicycle
hair flying
as if time could be outpaced
by innocence.

I never wrote a line before you
But now I write in the rhythm of your leaving
And every rhyme I never learned
now aches in the shape of you.

I wasn't a poet—
not until you looked at me
like I was worth remembering

And now when they ask me
why the moon feels closer
when I speak your name
I only smile and whisper—
"I am not a poet
But oh beautiful one
Ever since I saw you
I have started writing poetry."


Erennwrites

She hiccupped in the middle of a sentence—
like a comma her body forgot to hide.
A tiny sound, a flutter, a skip—
and suddenly, the world tilted on its side.
She covered her mouth,
cheeks painted rose,
as if embarrassed that her heart
was speaking in Morse code.

'"I swear it only happens when I’m nervous,"'
she said, eyes darting like fireflies in June.
But he just smiled—
like it was his favorite song out of tune.
Another hiccup.
Then two.
Then three.
Like kisses falling out accidentally.
She groaned. He laughed. She turned away.
He said, “You hic like a poem trying to stay.”

He offered water, she shook her head.
He whispered, “Maybe you need love instead?”
She rolled her eyes but let it slide,
as hiccups danced and time complied.
And in that pause between her little startles,
he found stars tucked behind her dimples—
how her hiccups made her human, soft,
a little wild, a little lost.

He wanted to bottle that sound,
like a keepsake of her clumsy grace—
the way even her stutters
found rhythm on her face.
They say love speaks in circles—
roses, rain, or setting suns.
But his came in half-held giggles,
in hiccups that never quite let her run.

So the next time she hic, and cursed the air,
he leaned in close, tucked a strand of her hair—
and whispered with a smile too wide to ignore,
“Every hiccup just makes me love you more.”


Erennwrites

They taught us to blink the salt in—
that tears are currency for the fragile
and we must never spend
To lead, you must clench your jaw
crack your spine straight like scripture
and let the pain nest in the lungs
where no one sees.

We became statues with glass eyes
shined and bulletproof
Even grief feared our silence.
We held funerals in our throats
prayers sewn shut behind polite smiles
and called it strength—
this ache that made us godlike
this discipline of drowning
without making a sound.

But the body remembers
The body always does
It will drag your sorrow
into the marrow of your bones
weave sorrow into sleep
turn breaths into broken glass
and eyelids into knives.

Somewhere between
“I’m fine” & “I don’t feel anything anymore,”
we vanished—
a thousand storms swallowed
by skin that refused to leak.
No one taught us that tears
weren’t weakness—
they were rain.
They were the only thing
keeping the garden of us
from withering in silence.
But we were too busy being strong
to water ourselves.

We led by example—
held our cries
so others could sleep through the night.
But in doing so,
we buried the child in us
with lullabies made of restraint.
And what a cruel lie it is—
to teach the brave not to bleed,
to crown the silent as heroes,
while their hearts rot quietly
in the dark.

Even the moon
cracks under it's own light
Even steel weeps
when the fire lingers too long

So cry—
Let them cry.
Let the sky split.
Let the flood rise.
It is not weakness
to feel too much—
It is survival
To feel at all.


Erennwrites

Her parents passed on
before she could tie her own shoes,
left with a baby brother
and grief too big for her hands.
Her grandparents gave her love—
soft, steady,
the kind that never asked her to smile.

But the world outside was cruel.
So she built boxes—
safe little spaces
where no one could hurt her.
She painted roses on the walls:
red for anger,
white for innocence,
black for the nights
she cried without sound.

She spoke in riddles,
loved in silence,
and kept her heart
wrapped in thorns.
No one ever stayed long enough
to see the girl inside the box—
still hoping
someone might enter,
and choose to stay.

Until one day,
he knocked—
not to fix her,
but to sit beside her,
quietly.
And for the first time,
she opened the box,
not to hide—
but to let someone in.


Erennwrites

Kata orang, jiwa yang ditakdirkan
tak selalu bertemu di musim bunga—
kadang mereka bersua dalam runtuhan
dalam perit luka yang hampir sembuh
di antara senyap dua jiwa yang pernah patah

Kau hadir bukan seperti guruh
tetapi seperti dendang yang lama ku lupa
suaramu—
bahasa yang tulangku sudah mengerti
senyumanmu—
pintu yang pernah ku mimpikan
jauh sebelum aku berani mengetuk

Kita tak berselisih
Kita teringat
Seperti bintang lama yang masih berkedip
seperti hujan yang mengulang jejak di jendela
yang pernah dikenalnya dalam dunia lain

Saat kau genggam tanganku nanti
ia bukan sekadar hangat—
ia kenangan
Dari ribuan malam yang telah kita lalui
di kehidupan yang lebih lembut
di mana kau tak pernah perlu pergi
dan aku tak perlu menunggu

Aku menyayangimu sebelum aku tahu wajahmu
Dan saat aku akhirnya menatapmu
aku menangis—bukan kerana bahagia
tetapi kerana segala hayat
yang pernah ku cari
dan tidak menjumpaimu

Kita adalah sedih di balik lagu lama
alasan rasi bintang enggan pudar
nama yang laut bisikkan
pada bulan yang selalu diam

Dan walau dunia melupakan kita
walau di hayat seterusnya kita hanya bayang
jiwaku tetap membawa lukamu
dan degup nadiku
akan sentiasa satu detik lambat
menunggumu menyusulnya

Kerana saat semesta menulis namamu
ditulis juga namaku di sebelah—
bukan dengan dakwat
tapi dengan kerinduan
Selamanya.


Erennwrites

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

She was 'Autumn'—
warm, but always leaving
A soul stitched from golden light
and goodbyes she never stopped grieving

He was 'Winter'—
quiet, distant,
carving silence into the world
like someone used to resistance

They met
in the blur between late November
when leaves forget to hold on
and snow begins to remember
She smiled like the last fire in a cabin
He stared like someone who knew
the cost of warmth
and what it meant to lose it too soon

She spoke in colors—
scarlets and golds
words that cracked like twigs
but healed like poems never told
He answered in stillness
like frost on glass,
afraid that every touch
would make him shatter at last

But even frost can soften
Even storms can learn to stay
And slowly
she didn’t run
and he didn’t push her away
He let her fall apart in his arms
like leaves too tired to pretend
and she let his cold truth hold her—
not to fix
but to mend

They didn’t belong—
not in the way seasons are told
but somehow, in the ache of each other
they began to unfold

And there
in a world where nothing was meant to last
where autumn leaves and snowflakes
both belong to the past—
they built something quiet
something unknown—
a rhythm,
a whisper,
a heartbeat for a home.


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

The train hums like a memory
soft and slow through time—
a moment caught between gazing days
we lost, and hope we move forward.

Scenes flicker through the windowpane—
a mother’s wave, a lover’s stare
a strangers stealing glances
but never the courage to speak.

We travel fast, yet feel so still
in silence, we are seen—
as glances bloom like fragile love
in places we have been.

And maybe time is not a line
but tracks we ride again—
The train moves on
your soul intact, your past in every pane
each stop a reminder, each start a chance
to feel, to fall, to mend.
And every stop—
a chance to choose
To lose or love again.


Erennwrites

I called you Jane of all trades,
as if it were just a clever phrase—
as if your hands hadn’t bled learning
every art that helped you stay alive.
But I knew

You didn’t chase mastery
You chased meaning
You picked up crafts
when sleep left you
learned to dance
because silence hurt too much
took up swimming
as if you could swim your troubles
from this weir of waste.
You were always trying—
not to be the best
but to be whole.

And God, how fiercely you fought.
With laughter that sounded like armor,
and eyes that carried battles
no one else dared name.
You were relentless,
brave beyond words,
beautiful in a way that had nothing
to do with what you looked like
and everything to do
with how you survived.

She battled demons
no one else could see
The kind that none believed to be true
Still she fought despite scars—
stitched both in mind and heart
inside the pauses between her own heartbeats
When she gave her heart
she didn’t hand it over in pieces
She poured. She flooded
Like a tulip bursting through frost
soft, bold, unafraid of breaking

You gave your soul in soft-spoken glances,
in texts at 2 a.m
always checking in if I'm okay
in remembering the little things
I never even knew I said.
And I—
I was the lucky one once.

We’re not us anymore.
And maybe we never fully were.
But I carry you, still—
in the quiet ways you changed me.
And I still love you.
Not the way I did then,
but deeper.
Quieter.
In the way a gardener still visits
the soil where a tulip once bloomed—
knowing it will return each spring,
just not for him.

Your name speaks for itself—
You can do everything
Every survival you triumph through
Despite all that your walls did break
But I knew the truth
Loving me was the only thing you didn't master
You couldn't pull through

And if this poem
finds its way to you someday—
just know:
You were never too much.
You were everything.
And loving you
was the closest I ever came
to loving something whole.


Erennwrites

He told me he’d never grow up—
that forever could live in a laugh
in a stolen night's kiss
and the glint of a lie dressed as stars

He said love was a flight
just follow the second star
but forgot to mention
how hard the landing hurts
when the sky disappears
I thought he was Peter Pan—
wild green eyes, crooked grin
heart full of wind and wonder
But he never fought for me
He never stayed

Real boys don’t fly
They fall
They promise pixie dust
and give you empty hands—
With hope, they say “forever”
like it’s a game of clocks
then vanish in no time
when the rules start to matter
I kept waiting at the window,
hair tangled in moonlight
hope bruised against the sill—
but Neverland was just a name
for the place where he left me

He’s not Peter Pan
He never was

And I—
I was 'Tinker Bell' without the glow
'Wendy' without the voice
just a girl who learned too late
that fantasy is a cruel fate
when it wears the face of someone
you almost loved

And I—
I was the fairytale he never meant to finish,
the story he closed before the ending.
So now I wear my heartbreak
like broken wings stitched in gold—
I don’t fly anymore,
I finally know how to walk away


Erennwrites

We were just
two shadows in a field of blue
a white sigh and a black whisper
lost between petals
and the hush of things unspoken
The world didn’t know our names—
but the flowers did.
They watched you lean into me
like a prayer left unspoken.

We danced without music
just the rhythm of glances
the poetry of tilts and tilting heads
at old wooden windows
where time paused—
as if even it was curious
how love could bloom—
from silence.

We saw forever
in a sea of daisies
our backs to the world
shoulders brushing like fragile vows
we dared not speak aloud.
You—
with a heart too quiet
Me—
with one too loud.

And when the sea called
we sat by the edge
on cracked teal concrete
watching ships go by
not chasing them—
just wondering if they carried
the versions of us
who never said goodbye.

Behind brick and bloom,
we hid from the world
but not from each other
Your head touched mine—
so softly,
it rewrote every ache
I thought I had to keep.
Your gaze was the garden
I forgot I deserved.

And if I could choose again,
I'd still be the black night
to your gentle dawn—
not perfect, not always kind,
but always
always,
there.


Erennwrites

We searched the skies for shooting stars
yet never thanked the quiet moon—
'how it stayed
how it prayed'
even when we didn’t.
We mourned the flowers we never held
but not the hands that reached for us
when we were too broken
to feel their warmth.

Rain fell on rooftops like lullabies
and we cursed the weather
never knowing it was—
god’s soft way of asking us to rest.
there were days we begged for signs
for answers wrapped in thunder
yet the silence itself
was an answer—
a mercy wrapped in stillness.

We wrote poems for those who left
but not for the air that stayed
when our lungs gave up,
or traffic that halted our time
so we wouldn't be wounded by—
death's call that compromised
oh, how blind we were
to the blessings that never screamed—
the mother who prayed behind a closed door
the stranger who smiled and meant it
the night that didn’t last forever.

We begged for forever—
but were handed fleeting moments
wrapped in the scent of old rain,
echoing laughter in empty rooms
we never thought we’d miss
we thought love had to arrive
like fire through glass
but it was the scarf left to be found
the door left unlocked
the voice that whispered "I believe in you,"
when even we didn’t.

Look closer.
Sometimes,
what saves you
doesn’t come with a name.
Sometimes,
love never announces itself—
it just leaves the light on
And maybe that
was the blessing all along.


Erennwrites

She was born with bound feet
and dreams too wide for a corset
Her cradle sang lullabies
in tongues no one let her write
A girl made of dusk and dust
beneath ceilings men mistook
for heavens.
she walked the blood-stained bridge
between silence and survival
Her body was not hers—
it was a battleground
a burden, a bargaining chip
She knew hands not by gentleness
but by what they took.

They called it duty
when they bruised her thighs
They called it love
when they hushed her cries
And when she bled
from places stories won’t name
they told her
that’s just what happens
to women who disobey
But still, she stitched stars
into her daughters’ eyes
With broken nails
she peeled hunger from the table
poured the last of herself
into pots and prayers.
She worked farms
with wombs still torn, from childbirth—
and smiled through it
so her sons wouldn’t see.

She yearned for books
but was handed brooms
Letters danced beyond her grasp—
so she taught herself in the dark
behind curtains
while lullabies played over the radio
She listened,
she learned,
she remembered
They told her education was wasted—
on a woman
But she educated the world—
one child at a time.

She wore kebayas stitched with sorrow
hijabs heavy with hope
bonnets and braids
that hid the grief of generations
She held her tongue
so her daughters could speak.
She walked behind
so they could run.
Romance was never all flowers—
it was staying after the beatings
praying he'd change
It was brushing her daughter's hair
while her own still smelled
like a stranger’s breath
But through it all—
she never broke
She bent, she bled,
but never broken

She is the reason we speak freely
learn openly, walk safely—
She is the reminder
How women should be treated
Like a rose but never wilts
That's how women should be


Erennwrites