Still Nothing’ is powerful because it shows that closeness doesn’t always mean contact. The poem proves that distance can exist inside intimacy, and that even stillness carries emotional weight. That quiet tension is the heart of this piece.
The poem reads like the inner voice of someone standing on the threshold of intimacy, afraid to step forward yet unable to step back. Its shifting distances echo the way we hover around the people who matter, pretending indifference while every breath betrays us. “Far enough” becomes a kind of self‑protection, while “close enough” reveals the longing that keeps breaking through. Breath turns into a fragile bridge the smallest sign that another life is near, real, reachable. The speaker feels like someone who watches in the dark not out of secrecy, but out of fear of disturbing what they cherish. The stillness between them is thick with unsaid things, the kind that press against the ribs. When the poem returns to “still nothing,” it carries the ache of all the touches imagined but never dared. And the final repetition “to feel your breath” lands like a truth too intimate to speak aloud, the kind that lingers long after the moment has passed.
That’s a remarkably attentive reading Adrião. Thank you for staying with it that closely.
I’m struck by “self-protection” and “fear of disturbing what they cherish” — that feels exactly right. Not secrecy, not drama, just the careful ethics of not breaking something by reaching for it too quickly. And yes, breath as a bridge rather than a crossing… fragile, real, and telling on us even when we’re pretending not to want anything.
I’m grateful for how precisely you named what the poem keeps unsaid.
I'm not sure where you were... what mind-space you were in, but it made me think of laying in bed with someone while you are awake and they are still asleep.
That’s a really generous read Words, and a very perceptive one.
I wasn’t picturing a specific place so much as a position: that state of being awake beside someone who isn’t, where nothing is happening and yet everything is quietly registered. Breath, warmth, presence — all without crossing the line into movement.
I like that you landed there. It’s exactly that kind of closeness where stillness starts to count.
That’s beautifully put Dipti, and I love “advanced degree in restraint”. It captures the tone far better than I could have explained it without spoiling the spell.
I’m especially taken with “proximity—not contact—is the flex”. That’s very close to what I was circling: letting stillness do the work, and trusting breath to carry what touch doesn’t.
Thank you for reading it at that level — it felt seen.
Then I’ll consider this my supervised practicum in saying less — trusting the negative space to carry meaning, and resisting the urge to annotate the silence.
If restraint has a curriculum, I’m finally auditing instead of lecturing.
It can be a challenging, even slightly scary, threshold to cross over sometimes, as we are fully beholden on the reader noticing, sensing, even feeling something and filling that white space with their meaning.
Trust in yourself and your craft, because I know you can do it 💛 😊 💛
Oh my. This hit me. I feel this from several angles: hope and sadness, the longing of the ache. Thank you for this.
Thank you so much for your reflection Veronica 💛
"Close enough to touch,
still nothing.
still close enough,
to feel your breath.
to feel your breath"
This echoes in the mind like an ache that won't fade. Masterful stuff.
Thank you so much dearest @Moll Moonlight.
Really pleased this poem echoed for you in your mind 💛 🫶 💛
Goosebumps 💯💗
Thank you Franky 💛
"Within range of your pulse,
no interference,
yet the stillness
counts anyway" - You let silence be silence, and at the same time allow it to speak so loudly. A wonderful poem.
Thank you @Phoeby 💛 🫶 💛
I wonder where I was when you were writing like this. Subbed.
Thank you so much Reisson. 😊 and likewise subbed back :)
This is beautiful 🖤✨
Thank you so much Laura ❤️
Beautifully done, Mark.
Thank you forrest 😊
“still nothing.”
Rude. In the best way.
This is closeness without permission, stillness that keeps making contact.
Nothing happens and somehow everything is felt.
Exactly that Asuka~!
Rude in the best possible way made me laugh, because yes.
“still nothing.” isn’t meant to be polite or explanatory — it’s the line where the poem refuses to negotiate.
I love how you put it: closeness without permission, stillness that keeps making contact. Nothing happens… and the body keeps noticing anyway.
That reading fits it perfectly.
Thank you 💛 🫶 💛
Still Nothing’ is powerful because it shows that closeness doesn’t always mean contact. The poem proves that distance can exist inside intimacy, and that even stillness carries emotional weight. That quiet tension is the heart of this piece.
Thank you so much Dawnithic and that’s very precisely put.
Distance inside intimacy is the tension I was trying to hold without resolving it, and you’re right: the stillness isn’t empty, it’s doing the work.
I really appreciate you naming that weight so clearly — it feels like you met the poem where it was standing, even though are you feel ill.
The poem reads like the inner voice of someone standing on the threshold of intimacy, afraid to step forward yet unable to step back. Its shifting distances echo the way we hover around the people who matter, pretending indifference while every breath betrays us. “Far enough” becomes a kind of self‑protection, while “close enough” reveals the longing that keeps breaking through. Breath turns into a fragile bridge the smallest sign that another life is near, real, reachable. The speaker feels like someone who watches in the dark not out of secrecy, but out of fear of disturbing what they cherish. The stillness between them is thick with unsaid things, the kind that press against the ribs. When the poem returns to “still nothing,” it carries the ache of all the touches imagined but never dared. And the final repetition “to feel your breath” lands like a truth too intimate to speak aloud, the kind that lingers long after the moment has passed.
That’s a remarkably attentive reading Adrião. Thank you for staying with it that closely.
I’m struck by “self-protection” and “fear of disturbing what they cherish” — that feels exactly right. Not secrecy, not drama, just the careful ethics of not breaking something by reaching for it too quickly. And yes, breath as a bridge rather than a crossing… fragile, real, and telling on us even when we’re pretending not to want anything.
I’m grateful for how precisely you named what the poem keeps unsaid.
That kind of reading is its own form of intimacy.
Heartfelt.
Thank you @Be Budding 😊
This was lovely.
I'm not sure where you were... what mind-space you were in, but it made me think of laying in bed with someone while you are awake and they are still asleep.
That’s a really generous read Words, and a very perceptive one.
I wasn’t picturing a specific place so much as a position: that state of being awake beside someone who isn’t, where nothing is happening and yet everything is quietly registered. Breath, warmth, presence — all without crossing the line into movement.
I like that you landed there. It’s exactly that kind of closeness where stillness starts to count.
Thank you. Really though, I couldn’t have figured it out if it wasn’t so well-written so nice work!
😊
Intimacy with an advanced degree in restraint.
Desire at quantum distance: nothing touching, everything felt.
A love poem where stillness does the heavy lifting, breath is the only witness, and proximity—not contact—is the flex.
That’s beautifully put Dipti, and I love “advanced degree in restraint”. It captures the tone far better than I could have explained it without spoiling the spell.
I’m especially taken with “proximity—not contact—is the flex”. That’s very close to what I was circling: letting stillness do the work, and trusting breath to carry what touch doesn’t.
Thank you for reading it at that level — it felt seen.
Then I’ll consider this my supervised practicum in saying less — trusting the negative space to carry meaning, and resisting the urge to annotate the silence.
If restraint has a curriculum, I’m finally auditing instead of lecturing.
That’s precisely it Dipti.
It can be a challenging, even slightly scary, threshold to cross over sometimes, as we are fully beholden on the reader noticing, sensing, even feeling something and filling that white space with their meaning.
Trust in yourself and your craft, because I know you can do it 💛 😊 💛
I’ll take that as encouragement to stay a little braver with less. If the space starts speaking back, I’ll know it’s working.
Exactly that.
It’s very similar to white space in UX design (it’s why Apple designs are so popular) and also Gestalt theory.
Have fun and let me know how it goes 😊
Agreed—white space isn’t empty, it’s instructive. I’ll stay curious and see what shape shows up.
Beautiful
Thank you so much @Freeta 😊
Thank you so much, dear SheHermit. Liminal is exactly the word I kept not writing.
That in-between where nothing advances, nothing retreats, and yet the feeling is very much alive.
I’m really pleased that the tension came through without needing to name it directly.
💛 🫶 💛