I've found myself nostalgic for days where I was unraveling.
I want to fall apart again.
I miss the feeling of my back against the wall in the dark as I sobbed,
with no goal other than surviving through the night.

That's how every week started.
Just one more night.
     Just one more night.
          Just one more night.
               Just one more night.
                    Just one more night.
                         Just one more night.
                              Just one more night.
That's how every week started.

The fires are back, and I can smell the smoke
lingering over the 408 in the earliest AM hours.
Not quite late enough to be morning yet,
that mess of fog beneath the streetlamps blurring past.

Things have gone well enough that I'm terrified
of the fall of the next shoe,
of the rug being pulled out from under me again.
Things have gone well enough that I don't even miss you anymore.

There was a level of comfort in the despair of it all.
There was a simplicity in misery.
In all my days chasing the light at the end of the tunnel,
I never expected to find it so blinding.