When The Quiet Refused To Die by Dr. Deepak Dev

When The Quiet Refused To Die

In the attic of my mind,

I found a locked drawer—

beneath layers of dust-laced grief,

it pulsed faintly,

as if waiting to be opened

by the hand that once trembled.

Inside—

not love, not rage,

but the sound of a door that never closed,

a shadow without form,

the perfume of something unsaid

lingering like a half-forgotten verse

scribbled on a rain-soaked napkin.

You see,

I do not carry memories like relics.

They are unfinished melodies,

humming low beneath conversations,

like static on an old vinyl

that never quite stopped playing.

And still,

I walk into mornings

with a spine of salt,

knowing full well

some sunrises don’t warm—

they reveal.

I learned:

Grief does not knock.

It rewrites the blueprint

of your breathing.

There was a day

I forgot your voice,

but remembered the exact way

you used to tighten the jar lids

so no one could open them but you—

a secret strength

you thought no one noticed.

Now,

I write about you

with borrowed ink

and stolen metaphors—

trying to craft closure

from the very breath

that once whispered stay.

You are a country

I visit in dreams—

a place where laughter echoes off collapsed

ceilings,

and I am fluent

in every language

you left unsaid.

Sometimes,

I still believe

you are the dust in the light

that enters when

I’m not looking.

So if this poem feels like

an unfinished sentence—

it is.

You were the period

I never wanted

to place.