Empathy in NYC

 1.

Your eyes fill with tears—
I don’t ask you to explain.
I just hand my hand.

2.
We ride the same train.
Your silence and mine hold hands
between each station.

3.
The woman stumbles.
A stranger steadies her bag—
then vanishes, kind.

4.
I see your small flinch
when someone says something sharp—
I nod. You are seen.

5.
He yells at the wind.
People pass, I stay and smile—
sometimes storms need names.

6.
I do not know pain
exactly like yours. Still, I
sit with it, softly.

7.
Your grief scares others.
But I bring soup anyway,
with bread and no words.

8.
The child drops her toy.
I pick it up like it’s mine—
some losses are small.

9.
Nurse wipes the man's chin—
not because it's in her job,
but because it's right.

10.
Your eyes won’t meet mine.
So I let mine rest nearby,
until they feel safe.

11.
We both lost someone.
Our names for them are different—
our ache is the same.

12.
The rain soaks us both.
You laugh, and I start to laugh—
we share the wet joy.

13.
Old man in the park,
feeding birds with quiet hands—
I thank him aloud.

14.
You stutter and pause.
I wait, not to help you speak—
but to help you breathe.

15.
The mother on edge—
I distract her child with songs,
just long enough.

16.
He falls asleep fast
on the shoulder I offered—
I do not wake him.

17.
Your story is sharp.
Still, I hold it like a gift—
wrapped in softest care.

18.
You said, “I’m tired.”
Not a complaint, but a prayer.
I whispered, “Me too.”

19.
In the ER’s rush,
the intern sits beside pain—
he learns without words.

20.
You speak through your art.
I stand and do not explain—
just nod and listen.

21.
The pigeon limps past.
Someone leaves crumbs in their wake—
a meal, not pity.

22.
She does not look up,
but I place the sandwich down—
dignity is light.

23.
His hands shake with rage.
I do not match it with fear—
just space to soften.

24.
You said, “No one sees.”
I whispered, “I do.” You cried.
That was the first step.

25.
Empathy begins
not in knowing—but in pause,
and the will to stay.