I still feel for you, somehow.

It’s 02:12 and me again…
Upstairs a white woman
and a black male are in drunken discussion.
I have heard the words ‘let go of me’
repeated
at least seven times now
just the way around the ‘stereotypists’
would want it.
I think she wants him to leave,
but he is going nowhere.

I press my headphones
in to my ears
and sip on a beer,
but the thud of their footsteps
still keeps them part of my conscious.
Despite my usual essence
I worry about them.
Not about the possibilities of murder
or rape,
but the state which people abide by.

The streets are full of plastic hard men
and velour laden teenage mothers,
none of them with an insight
in to the fine beers I drink
or the calming effect that ‘Hatching’
by The Cinematic Orchestra
is having on me now.

I keep writing these words down
again and again,
unable to help;
not through lack of willing,
but through their arrogance.

It is Saturday night,
the density of this population
has made our walls paper thin.
We live practically arm in arm
with each other,
but are separated by a vile distance
that keeps the glares heavy
and the substance watered down
to a bare minimum.

I will cry tonight,
but it won’t be for me.