#estuary - Hello Poetry

I have never understood how some people can kiss and remain continent, no coastlines redrawn, no tectonic surrender. For me, every mouth is a monsoon. Every pair of hands leaves behind a residue of constellation. I am porous as pumice, cathedral-thin, a lung taking in more than air. The boy who wore cedarwood cologne still lingers in the sleeves of my sweaters. The girl who hummed old jazz braided herself into my playlists. Someone else taught my fingers the delicate angle of a cigarette, how to hold it like a secret between two trembling saints. I cannot touch without absorption. Cannot leave without sediment. My closet is a reliquary. My throat, an archive of borrowed laughter. My tears taste faintly of other people’s salt. Some call it attachment. I call it osmosis: the quiet migration of essence through the semipermeable membrane of my ribcage. How could I survive a carousel of strangers, when each goodbye is an amputation performed without anesthesia? I would rattle, a wind chime made of fingerprints, clattering with borrowed ghosts. No, I am not built for the revolving door. I am an estuary, where every river I have loved empties itself into me and stays. I would rather be solitary shoreline than carry the brine of a hundred meaningless seas.

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Feb 11

Feb 11, 2026 at 4:54 AM UTC

poetriesgrave

Osmosis

I have never understood how some people can kiss and remain continent, no coastlines redrawn, no tectonic surrender. For me, every mouth is a monsoon. Every pair of hands leaves behind a residue of constellation. I am porous as pumice, cathedral-thin, a lung taking in more than air. The boy who wore cedarwood cologne still lingers in the sleeves of my sweaters. The girl who hummed old jazz braided herself into my playlists. Someone else taught my fingers the delicate angle of a cigarette, how to hold it like a secret between two trembling saints. I cannot touch without absorption. Cannot leave without sediment. My closet is a reliquary. My throat, an archive of borrowed laughter. My tears taste faintly of other people’s salt. Some call it attachment. I call it osmosis: the quiet migration of essence through the semipermeable membrane of my ribcage. How could I survive a carousel of strangers, when each goodbye is an amputation performed without anesthesia? I would rattle, a wind chime made of fingerprints, clattering with borrowed ghosts. No, I am not built for the revolving door. I am an estuary, where every river I have loved empties itself into me and stays. I would rather be solitary shoreline than carry the brine of a hundred meaningless seas.

51

The illusion is shifting again The columns melting stone to blurred sand Kiss the River bed, saturated nutrient flow Estuary, opposites mixing like friends Meeting our ends, meeting our ends The Compost heap rots and withers, In preparation to add to the cycle again The moment is fleeting Gather, pull the light close to your Chin Hold it on the sides of its head And gaze, gaze deeper and deeper again

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May 27, 2020

May 27, 2020 at 9:03 AM UTC

nasa-nick

Gaze Deeper

The illusion is shifting again The columns melting stone to blurred sand Kiss the River bed, saturated nutrient flow Estuary, opposites mixing like friends Meeting our ends, meeting our ends The Compost heap rots and withers, In preparation to add to the cycle again The moment is fleeting Gather, pull the light close to your Chin Hold it on the sides of its head And gaze, gaze deeper and deeper again

11

The air is slow and still faint puttering of the last barge shunting coal downstream city on the edge of sleep, settles city on the edge of night, darkens stretched steel and stone relax cooling to a grey relief reeds and sedges ripple under bridges and on the edges of the river city in the gaze of moonlight, sighs city in the haze of moonlight, slips in the steady wash of tidal waters and the brackish water of the estuary come the bodies from the shore. © M.L. Emmett

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Mar 18, 2016

Mar 18, 2016 at 5:51 AM UTC

magicpoet01

Thames at Night

The air is slow and still faint puttering of the last barge shunting coal downstream city on the edge of sleep, settles city on the edge of night, darkens stretched steel and stone relax cooling to a grey relief reeds and sedges ripple under bridges and on the edges of the river city in the gaze of moonlight, sighs city in the haze of moonlight, slips in the steady wash of tidal waters and the brackish water of the estuary come the bodies from the shore. © M.L. Emmett

16

A perfect love would be An estuary... People say if its meant to be Then it will be People also said that there's fresh and salty Different waters... Different flows... Different tides I want a love like an estuary For you and me A place where that river can kiss the sea It doesn't matter whether fresh or salty Whatever race, religion or country If its real love, then it's meant to be Traveling far and wide In order to unite in one tide Yes, most definitely! I desire a love like an estuary.

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May 8, 2015

May 8, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC

Stitch

Estuary

A perfect love would be An estuary... People say if its meant to be Then it will be People also said that there's fresh and salty Different waters... Different flows... Different tides I want a love like an estuary For you and me A place where that river can kiss the sea It doesn't matter whether fresh or salty Whatever race, religion or country If its real love, then it's meant to be Traveling far and wide In order to unite in one tide Yes, most definitely! I desire a love like an estuary.

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