Recover me

I can't see:

my eyes are

encrusted

with your

honeycomb lies

and no amount

of saltwater

can wash away

the words

you've said to me.

I can't smell:

pine forests

and the ocean air

fill my lungs

but no matter

how many times

I create a forest fire

or pollute the illusion

of a blue sky

I can't smoke out

the sickeningly sweet stench

of what we used to be.

I can't taste:

I've glided my tongue

over the curve of

my coffee mug

but no amount of

bitter heat

or sugar and cream

can reset the pop-rocks

going off

inside of me.

I can't feel:

I've pulled away

the layer of skin

you caressed

like an orange peel

but I made the mistake

of letting you touch

every inch of me

and now red wine

and strawberry vines

pour from me

and I've involuntarily

left a trail

so now you know

right where to find me.

I can't hear:

you whispered

of waking up

to Rome's sunlight

and sleeping under

Paris' speckled sky

but your empty

promises

are left among

the ruins under the sea

and no amount of

vanilla scented dreams

will cause me to

once again believe

you're anything more

than a snake in the

Garden of Eden.