I do not cry, the tears won't fall,
No weight to lift, no wall, no call.
Yet somewhere deep, beneath my chest,
An ache remains, a restless guest.
No rage to burn, no joy to bloom,
Just silent echoes fill the room.
No storms, no waves, the sea is still,
Yet somehow cold enough to kill.
I feel… but feel not — hard to name,
A hollow space, but who’s to blame?
The sadness hums, a quiet tune,
It doesn’t scream, but looms, immune.
It wraps around like gentle thread,
Not loud, not sharp — just soft, half-dead.
No bleeding heart, no shattered glass,
Just empty hours that slowly pass.
They ask, "Are you okay today?"
I smile, "I’m fine," then look away.
How do I speak of something less?
A ghost of grief, a faint distress.
Not broken, no — too numb for that,
No battles lost, no flags gone flat.
But in the quiet, I confess:
It hurts to feel this much… of less.
- Aditya Dube
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