Lying's Your New Territory.

I've been living in a cloud of smoke
and everything goes up in that cloud of smoke.  
My weak
fingertips
can't find you
and it seems she's too pretty, she lives, breathes, feasts on my head
in the mindless smoke,  

everytime I close my eyes.

I wish away the reading, the feeling, the reeling, the concealing that strives for air within my holding lung and wails for the emptiness.
In the silence
of my living room,
my weak
fingertips can't find you
and those are the moments I would turn back. 
I am no Doctor of time or space. 
I can retrace, replace, erase our footsteps in order to stop
the intergalatic key-tapping that took me to words
and a face
and rationality from the once psychopath.  
In here, the craze of animals die bravely on the edges of my  
memory, losing themselves in this self-destructive smoke.
I'm begging for a hand  
from the hazy, stagnant cloud 
but in the quiet riot of mispellings  
my weak fingertips
can't find you.