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Poetry/Journals/creative trash heap of Nicole Wilkinson, Denver-native, liberal arts student, amateur spoken-word poet, writer, reader, and editor of Wilde Magazine, a journal of queer art and literature.


I'm a lover of girls (more like girl: you know who you are), art, kink (Switchin' it up), nakedness (of a pysical and emotional nature), poetry, hot bod mods, and rats. Kind of obsessed with my baby rats. You can contact me at wilde.editor@gmail.com or message me here.


Also, please note this blog can be nsfw. I am a firm believer in naked folks. You go, naked folks.

 

To The Waitress That Served me Coffee

This is an old poem - I read it at Open Mic at Sacred Grounds, and afterwards, a guy named Jake wanted a copy of it. I didn’t have a copy on hand, so I gave him the url to this tumblr, and promised I’d post it. 

So, here you go Jake! 

______________________________

You look like somebody
I used to love and
for the split second I see you
my heart pounds memories
into my veins and my mouth coughs up
sparks I swallowed an eternity ago.

And I want to tell you you’re beautiful
in that way that only a lover is

And as my butterfly net eyes
catch you drifting from table
to table
you look as far away as
all hard-to-catch things are

and I wonder if I kissed you
would those No-Longer-New
Years Fireworks go off in my chest
would your lips taste like reservoir sand
would your hair turn to algae in my hands
would your tongue glide like a wave
could you traverse the same currents
of my mind like a boat riding
along my neural pathways

and if I whispered I love you
quiet enough into my dark roast
only to have you fill it up to the brim
with my inky reflection
could you read it in the grounds
what was left after the heartbreak
compost them perhaps
turn us into a garden that
hopeless couples get lost in
on their first dates

I smile at you, pay my check,
walk out the door
moments after meandering through
this old future I once prayed to,

And I wonder -

How many people do we
live entire lives with in the span
of a few cups of coffee,
a few memories left
in the mug gone cold.

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