All the Sick Ones Sing Along

All the cards are turned over.
Worrying about no more late-night,hazy-eyed,rooftop,stare-downs with the moon.
Sweating through the sheets, mired in bleak memories and all the chances we never met and things we don't regret and awkward moments that carry us to the next morning.
Then you sit back and wait for someone to tell you it's all a joke. Some weird invitation setting you up for the big reveal: everyone was in on everything. Every strange moment, coincidence, gentle nudge of de-ja-vu, and night filled with panic and desperation that you were doing everything wrong was just one big practical joke but now they're letting you in on it. And as angry as you'd be when the floor drops out, wouldn't it be a relief?

Everyone's a stranger.

Cling to the nights when you're in it with someone else. When there's someone there to hold onto while everything falls apart. Nothings going to fix the glitches or stitch those old scars that won't close.
"Doesn't it ever get better?" she said, not really asking.
I don't know.
Probably not.
It's not always bad though, is it?
It's just lonely when the walls creep closer and closer and everyone is staring in to see what you do about it.
So stay up late, and smoke and drink and burn. Blasting and singing songs about how sad it all is, giving you little flecks of hope that you might find someone to help you claw your way out of the box that's closed in around you.