How beautifully you have captured the intimacy of a long relationship where meaning no longer depends on words or movement! The stillness isn’t hesitation but familiarity, everything essential has already been learned.
The idling engines at the end beautifully suggest endurance over urgency, two lives still running, warmed by shared miles. Nothing needs to be crossed or proven. Presence itself is the bond.
Thank you Dipti. You've captured the very heart and essence of this piece. A long life yet, many more miles to be shared together, gently humming along.
Thank you so much Kelly. I really appreciate your kinds words.
PS. And seeing you here has given me a gentle reminder to come over and say hello on your side of the stack too. I've been meaning to for a while now 😊
Another masterclass in saying it without saying it out loud! I love the depth and complexity of the feelings here - the opposition, as well as the shared history and intimacy. This smelt like a real relationship, and it landed like an impressionist painting - a few brushstrokes encapsulating a world
Intelligent enjambement and line breaks throughout and great use of temporal compression. This piece treats time as almost spatial, suggesting accumulation without release.
I’m especially glad you noticed the enjambment doing temporal work. Treating time as something you move through — or stand inside — felt more honest than letting it unfold sequentially. Compression rather than release was very much the aim. And that's the first time I've seen enjambement used here!
“Accumulation without release” is a beautifully precise way of putting it. That sense of time stacking rather than resolving is exactly where the piece wanted to rest.
Mark, this one feels like two kids leaning toward each other going “I’m not touching youuu” while absolutely touching everything that matters. The idling is cheeky. The almost-touch is doing laps around the room. It’s like the moment is wiggling its eyebrows and saying “you feel that, right?” without ever breaking eye contact. Nothing happens and somehow everything happens. Quiet, sneaky, grinning energy. The kind that knows exactly how much mischief it’s causing and refuses to apologize for it.
Asuka, this is such a perfect read of it that I almost want to pretend I planned that exact energy all along.
“I’m not touching youuu” is precisely the register — that mischievous, suspended almost where nothing happens and everything is already decided. The idling doing laps made me laugh, because yes: the engines are absolutely aware of themselves and enjoying the tension far too much.
I love how you caught the refusal to apologise.
That feels right.
The piece isn’t trying to behave well or resolve cleanly — it’s content to hover, grin, and let the charge do its quiet damage.
Thank you for naming that so playfully and so accurately.
It’s a joy when a reading leans back into the work with the same energy it came from.
The poem captures two people meeting in a silence that is anything but empty, a silence thick with years, hesitations, and the tenderness of not knowing what comes next.
Every small movement becomes meaningful: the way light touches their skin, the way breath shifts the air, the way the ground answers before either of them speaks.
It’s a portrait of two bodies remembering each other slowly, as if memory were something that rises through the skin rather than through thought.
The almost‑touch is the poem’s true centre that fragile, trembling space where longing and caution hold each other in balance.
Distance melts not through action but through presence, like frost giving way simply because someone is close enough to warm it.
By the final section, their bodies feel like old machines that have travelled far: worn, dented, but still capable of humming with life.
The dull paint and cooling metal echo the fatigue of time, yet nothing in them has fully surrendered.
What remains is a quiet courage, the courage to stay, to face one another without armour, without performance.
The poem honours the kind of connection that doesn’t need words, only the willingness to remain in the same light for a moment longer.
Even with so many miles behind them, the low hum of their engines suggests that something in them is still open, still alive, still willing to move.
Adrião, thank you. This feels like the poem being listened to rather than interpreted.
What you said about silence being thick rather than empty is exactly where I hoped it would live. Not absence, but accumulation. Years sitting quietly together without needing to be accounted for.
I’m especially grateful for how you named the almost-touch as the centre. That fragile balance between longing and caution mattered more to me than any contact ever could — it’s where memory and presence overlap without resolving.
And that image of old machines, worn but still humming… yes. That’s the courage here, I think. Not renewal, not promise — just the willingness to remain, facing, engines warm enough to stay alive for a little longer.
Thank you for reading it with such steadiness. It means a great deal.
How beautifully you have captured the intimacy of a long relationship where meaning no longer depends on words or movement! The stillness isn’t hesitation but familiarity, everything essential has already been learned.
The idling engines at the end beautifully suggest endurance over urgency, two lives still running, warmed by shared miles. Nothing needs to be crossed or proven. Presence itself is the bond.
Thank you Dipti. You've captured the very heart and essence of this piece. A long life yet, many more miles to be shared together, gently humming along.
No performance needed, just presence.
Thank you so much for stepping into this piece.
Thank you Mark. Your piece crystallized your article about motion as metaphor.
Mark, I've been reading your other comments on this. I agree with them. All of them. But I have to say this. I just see beautiful.
Thank you so much Kelly. I really appreciate your kinds words.
PS. And seeing you here has given me a gentle reminder to come over and say hello on your side of the stack too. I've been meaning to for a while now 😊
You’re welcome Mark. Glad to be reacquainted.
Another masterclass in saying it without saying it out loud! I love the depth and complexity of the feelings here - the opposition, as well as the shared history and intimacy. This smelt like a real relationship, and it landed like an impressionist painting - a few brushstrokes encapsulating a world
Such a beautiful reflection Moll and love how you felt the depth here. 🤗 💛 🤗
💕❤️🔥
Two souls, un-rushed, knowing each other without words or looks but time.
Recognition at its finest. Beautiful, soft, deep, knowing.
Thank you @Gub 😊
Intelligent enjambement and line breaks throughout and great use of temporal compression. This piece treats time as almost spatial, suggesting accumulation without release.
JC, thank you!
That’s such a perceptive read.
I’m especially glad you noticed the enjambment doing temporal work. Treating time as something you move through — or stand inside — felt more honest than letting it unfold sequentially. Compression rather than release was very much the aim. And that's the first time I've seen enjambement used here!
“Accumulation without release” is a beautifully precise way of putting it. That sense of time stacking rather than resolving is exactly where the piece wanted to rest.
I appreciate you naming that so clearly.
Thank you! ✨✨✨
That's so so heart warming.. Nothing truly leaves... Awesome words 🤗🤗🤗
Thank you pm 🤗 💛 🤗
Mark, this one feels like two kids leaning toward each other going “I’m not touching youuu” while absolutely touching everything that matters. The idling is cheeky. The almost-touch is doing laps around the room. It’s like the moment is wiggling its eyebrows and saying “you feel that, right?” without ever breaking eye contact. Nothing happens and somehow everything happens. Quiet, sneaky, grinning energy. The kind that knows exactly how much mischief it’s causing and refuses to apologize for it.
Asuka, this is such a perfect read of it that I almost want to pretend I planned that exact energy all along.
“I’m not touching youuu” is precisely the register — that mischievous, suspended almost where nothing happens and everything is already decided. The idling doing laps made me laugh, because yes: the engines are absolutely aware of themselves and enjoying the tension far too much.
I love how you caught the refusal to apologise.
That feels right.
The piece isn’t trying to behave well or resolve cleanly — it’s content to hover, grin, and let the charge do its quiet damage.
Thank you for naming that so playfully and so accurately.
It’s a joy when a reading leans back into the work with the same energy it came from.
yes~! that refusal to apologise is the grin.
It just hovers there, doing its quiet damage on purpose.
I love that you named it so cleanly.
Best feeling when the reading leans back and smirks right along with the work.
The poem captures two people meeting in a silence that is anything but empty, a silence thick with years, hesitations, and the tenderness of not knowing what comes next.
Every small movement becomes meaningful: the way light touches their skin, the way breath shifts the air, the way the ground answers before either of them speaks.
It’s a portrait of two bodies remembering each other slowly, as if memory were something that rises through the skin rather than through thought.
The almost‑touch is the poem’s true centre that fragile, trembling space where longing and caution hold each other in balance.
Distance melts not through action but through presence, like frost giving way simply because someone is close enough to warm it.
By the final section, their bodies feel like old machines that have travelled far: worn, dented, but still capable of humming with life.
The dull paint and cooling metal echo the fatigue of time, yet nothing in them has fully surrendered.
What remains is a quiet courage, the courage to stay, to face one another without armour, without performance.
The poem honours the kind of connection that doesn’t need words, only the willingness to remain in the same light for a moment longer.
Even with so many miles behind them, the low hum of their engines suggests that something in them is still open, still alive, still willing to move.
Adrião, thank you. This feels like the poem being listened to rather than interpreted.
What you said about silence being thick rather than empty is exactly where I hoped it would live. Not absence, but accumulation. Years sitting quietly together without needing to be accounted for.
I’m especially grateful for how you named the almost-touch as the centre. That fragile balance between longing and caution mattered more to me than any contact ever could — it’s where memory and presence overlap without resolving.
And that image of old machines, worn but still humming… yes. That’s the courage here, I think. Not renewal, not promise — just the willingness to remain, facing, engines warm enough to stay alive for a little longer.
Thank you for reading it with such steadiness. It means a great deal.
Mark, this reads like fifty years of marriage distilled. Thank you for putting words to it. I loved the dulled paint part, we're all getting wrinkles.
Thank you so much Nicole.
After fifty years of marriage, I'd be happy with a few dents and creases, and yes — maybe the dulled paint will be there too. 😊
A lovely reflection SheHermit 🤗
Thank you sooo much 🤗 💛 🤗