Some poetry for your Coca Cola

I wish I was a true soul, a new soul without a heart to wander with.

I wish I were dark and deep
within air that's thick with leaves that blow
in rhythms that glow in what is unseen,
I wish I were between
the black that makes the air sweet with rain
and makes you feel at peace with mystery and fear,
at home in the unknown,
high on wine or love that doesn't know love,
I want to feel lost but safe in the mystery-
to feel the heat of summer nights
and its thickness supple in my skin,
high within me.

I wish it were in me to be more than the night,
to feel the stark contrast of brisk mornings
with glazed sleepiness over coffee new as snow
with grass awakened by dawn,
I wish I was on a routine,
with pens and paperclips,
paintbrushes neatly aligned in the cleanliness of a room washed in sunlit windows
with plants as my furniture,
I wish that I could be content enough with that.

To not find solace
in embrace of mystery and desperate affection from the equally lost,
with music being the only friend,
I wish I could not wish anymore,
to just be and to know,
to find affection in what I sow, not eat cake.
Drink dark deep beer to the bottom of a glass into the hollowness of myself,
I wish I could be myself
instead of letting the levity of alcohol play puppeteer.

I wish I were here,
to appreciate the feel of my shoes,
the sounds of tinkling piano,
to feel an inner beat that steals the fullness of my heart and need,
to make me move, to move and be at home in being alone.
To be ok with glad and sadness.
To be ok with all my badness,
I want to encompass my displacement and my soul's pressure building like a balloon
and whisper it out into a feeling contrived and true,
deliver it to you.

The feeling of a compliment,
the feeling of flattery to your lips,
irreplaceable affection unique and self-aware,
I want, I need, I must, I cant.
Never and always.
I am no longer.
I is replaceable and impersonal.
I is universal and all mine.
But it isn't.
It is yours.
I am yours.
Tomorrow is years and yesterday.
It is familiar, irreplaceable, a glimpse of all, a passing thought.
I choose nothing.
I am.
I do.
What can I say about this?
I can't about anything.

I am insignificant to all, for time will weather me down to dust, you to dust, this to dust.
My affections are sighs lost in a second amongst infinity.
They are priceless.
Nothing and everything.
Like brushing my fingertips in the palm of your hand while you dream.
I don't exist.