Cruelest Compassion

It’s the train ride,

the cubicle I sit in,

the lighting and climate

control.

I feel sick in here.

I feel weak in here.

I feel useless in here.

A cog in the machine

of repression, oppression.

Her laughter made it all

seem tolerable though.

Her smile was a place to

feel the sun on your

face and joy in your arms.

There was warmth in it.

It is somewhere I’d

like to be.

I want to sit at her

feet and forget about

my cubicle, my train,

my work, my emptiness

and marvel at her

silliness.

Her softness was the

compassion my concrete

cruelty needed. Even if

just for a little while.

When it’s gone, I miss it.

When it’s gone, I’m left

with a crowded train,

clumsy cubicle and

consternation.

Her smile, her eyes, are a

brief respite from the trenches

of monotony.  

The memory shortly

sustains me, but it’s an

addiction and I want more.

It’s compassionately cruel.