I wanted to speak with you today.
You could only stare at me
with your white wispy image
floating across a perfect blue sky,
traveling through my thoughts,
waving, winking at my heart.
Pain replaces itself with longing.
Life is moving on without you,
in place of you. I shed a tear
each time it could be you. Each time
you stare at me through moonlit eyes
grazing my soul, forming goose bumps.
I meditate; celebrate our early life together,
press my eyes with a cold, damp cloth
until white lights run a picture show of
our surreal past. I see you sitting, staring
from the shade of our backyard oak,
smiling at me through the snow.
Everyday I find you somewhere.
Some days, like today, I want to speak
with you; run my cathartic energy passed
you; share my irrational emotions with you
like our smoky lounge rum and cokes of ’75,
like our North Main hookers and empty wallets.
Daydreams, quiet moments, you appear.
Staring at me in one form or another –
P.C. McKinnon began writing poetry in 1992 while attending undergraduate school at the University of Central Florida. The back-to-back deaths of two friends in 2002 and 2003, re-kindled his need of expression. He began writing with passion and urgency to share his thoughts on a myriad of life issues. The second of these two deaths – lifelong frie ...