#porous - 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

Memories are porous like seashells with nano holes. Peace escapes this permeable space, choking it with clamor. Future - the black hole swallows the past sans remorse, amnesia struggles in amniotic fluid, an echo rebounds Silence is bearable now.

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Feb 7, 2020

Feb 7, 2020 at 7:06 AM UTC

Mani

Silence is bearable now

Memories are porous like seashells with nano holes. Peace escapes this permeable space, choking it with clamor. Future - the black hole swallows the past sans remorse, amnesia struggles in amniotic fluid, an echo rebounds Silence is bearable now.

10

Two broken hearts When they come together They bleed out From their fresh scabs And they turn black As the warmth from them Trickles down Dripping scarlet Into our thoughts And into our sanity And we look down At our intertwined fingers As we scratch the backs of Each other's heavily scarred hands A murmur, our words So porous and empty They're carried away by the wind "I love you"

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Nov 29, 2014

Nov 29, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC

angie-s

Aftermath

Two broken hearts When they come together They bleed out From their fresh scabs And they turn black As the warmth from them Trickles down Dripping scarlet Into our thoughts And into our sanity And we look down At our intertwined fingers As we scratch the backs of Each other's heavily scarred hands A murmur, our words So porous and empty They're carried away by the wind "I love you"

18