#sediment - Hello Poetry

time warp in grey matter a memory laid down in an electric mind twisted sponges chemical imbalance a giddy pathway.

0

Apr 11

Apr 11, 2026 at 10:03 AM UTC

nivek

chemical imbalance

time warp in grey matter a memory laid down in an electric mind twisted sponges chemical imbalance a giddy pathway.

6

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.

0

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

_Gilt-edged meanderings decant the sediment of diurnal isolation as autumn falls._

0

Apr 29, 2020

Apr 29, 2020 at 12:06 AM UTC

annh

Glass Half Full

_Gilt-edged meanderings decant the sediment of diurnal isolation as autumn falls._

4

The secrets in your pockets have fallen on the ground I gathered up enough to recover every sound I'm not afraid to keep them and move while holding on Whatever you are saying I'm hearing as a song I've learned to know the music with every sense I have Return to you the silence the rest you needed back

0

Apr 30, 2014

Apr 30, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC

olga-valerevna

Breccias

The secrets in your pockets have fallen on the ground I gathered up enough to recover every sound I'm not afraid to keep them and move while holding on Whatever you are saying I'm hearing as a song I've learned to know the music with every sense I have Return to you the silence the rest you needed back

12