Sadness Compounding in a Foreign Country

Every time you cry, your tears sinking into the nape of my neck.

Sadness seeping into my skin.

Your grief washes over me.

I try to be strong for you.

I try so but cannot.

I struggle too.

Sadness compounding.

If only I could be more profound.

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Are taller people more sad? No of course they are not. Yet the scale of their physical body language is larger comparative to your's. Maybe architecture has taught me too much about ambience but I have absorbed the energy. I have no immediate reasons to be sad yet I am feeling very sad. I wonder if I should cry with you too? But then that would make two of us, sadness compounding. I only just met you. I do not yet know all your nuances. Neither do you know all of mine. I am second-guessing whether the way I comfort people is the way your want to be comforted? We both hail from opposite corners of this world meeting by chance in this foreign land. Most of the time, I cannot understand you, now amidst the choking and the sadness, all I understand is that you are sad. I want to help but I'm not sure if I am.

But this roof, this very flat cement roof - on which another household operates above us - binds us together. Our happiness, our sorrows, our failures, our victories, our tears and our laughters. Since our paths have all crossed, I want us all to feel at home away from home. 

Since we have trouble understanding each other, I will let actions speak louder than words.

I will try to be more profound through my actions.

Please don't be sad anymore , I am trying.

Trying...also not to cry.

Trying...to help you.

Trying...to help you see the light too.