Good Morning, Wreckage

Kettle on at half eight,

same chipped mug, same chair,

and the ordinary morning

sits there being ordinary.

There were years I would have swapped

my whole hand for a scene like this,

and I'd have called that pathetic then,

and I'd have been an idiot.

'Cause I nearly wasn't here for it.

That's not a metaphor —

Good morning, wreckage. (good morning)

Look at us both still going.

Good morning, wreckage. (good morning)

Kettle's on, the sky's alright.

I'm not pretending you're not there.

I'm just saying: look at the light.

Good morning. (good morning)

Funny how the small things get enormous after storms:

a made bed, a paid bill, a phone call that ain't a warning,

a body that gets tired for normal boring reasons,

a fridge with actual food in it, a life with actual seasons.

I don't take it lightly and I don't take it for granted,

and I know that's what they all say, but I mean it in the plainest way:

I have been the wreckage and I've been the one who cleared it,

and this quiet little morning is a thing that I built.

Good morning, wreckage. (good morning)

You don't run the house now.

Good morning, wreckage. (good morning)

You're a room I walk through, not a country.

I'm not pretending you're not there.

I'm just saying: look at the light.

Good morning. (good morning)

And if the bad hour comes back later

it can have the afternoon.

It cannot have the morning.

The morning's already spent.

Good morning, wreckage. (good morning)

Look at us both still going.

Kettle's on, the sky's alright,

and the version of me that didn't make it —

this one's for him. This one's on me.

Good morning. (good morning)

Good morning.