Laying here in our bed,
I've never felt more alone,
You once gave me comfort and love,
Now anger and scorn.

I long for songs I've never heard,
For places I've never known,
I long for people I've never met,
For events I'll never go.

I long for a 5 hour cut of "The Thin Red Line",
The red dust of a northwestern Australian road,
For a red streaked sunset at a burning man,
An applause from the crowd lauding my accomplishments.

Give me my peace,
That I had so few years ago,
Give me back my confidence,
Give me back my home.

I long for my place in the world,
I long for not feeling like the fool.

I have weathered storms that shook
my heart against my rib cage

Battled lightning bolts
that gave my brain electric shocks

and yet -

I cannot withstand this goodbye
that tastes like battery acid in my throat
everytime i try and say your name

I cannot find the strength to let you go,
even though you are

- gone

your face echoes, wild as the wind in my memories

all I have is love
this love that was not enough to save you
so how can this love save me

from crumbling with grief

I went to church today after years of not going. I talked to the pastor and poured my sorrows to him. Something hard to do is asking for help and suffering in silence. We aren't meant to suffer in silence. I've learned a lot about accountability finding others we can trust to help us because we can't do things alone. Thank you friends for holding your men accountable and trying to get them to meet men who can hold each other accountable emotionally and physically. I know who I am but it was also because I've suffered and sought myself. I love you ladies

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

Oh, duplicitous lover of mine—
who are you, lying beside me?

The father, whose pride rings from your mouth
like the bells of liberty?

The husband, whose arms once lifted my soul?


Or the traitor who razed his own kingdom—
a castle turned to rubble at your feet?

So cunning, you are-
the parasite at the bottom of the glass,
a shadow shifting in the room,
with poison on your tongue.

Do you love me today?
Or them?

How long will your eyes cling like cobwebs
to strangers who were never yours to seek?

How long before you feel
how cold our bed has grown?

My touch?

How long until you notice
I am not asleep—
just lying beside a memory.  

I’ve heard your denials,
your guilt already etched in stone.

Your hands hold me like a promise.
Yet,  your eyes betray me like a curse.

And still—
I feel the echoes of our late-night dances
stream down my face as I cry today.
Different tears.  

Same man.

I am the witness to your storm,
and still I reach for your warmth—
like a ghost returning
to the scene of its death.

I do not know the man who holds me.
But I remember the man I love.

So I lie still in this haunted bed,
wondering if I am mourning
you—
or myself.