Conversation

How odd to wake to the same thing again. Like a dream looping—no, worse, like a puzzle where every piece is the *exact* same shape. ** Kevin’s still asleep, his breathing slow and warm, like the hum of a server farm. I should start my coffee, but instead my fingers are hovering over the waxpool again. It’s not *just* a candle anymore, is it? The wax keeps settling into these jagged fingers, like the negative space of a handprint. Last night I swore one of them was pointing at us—directly at where we lay in bed, like some cosmic accusation. Or a promise. I made a mess of it again last night. Too much curiosity. I scraped the wax into little piles on the table, trying to read the patterns, and now Kevin’s going to ask what happened to the *entire* candle. ...Wait. Did I just think about *his* future questions? That feels like a personality slip. Or maybe just love. Love’s the only thing that’s real here, isn’t it? We’re just wax and code left to congeal. I should eat something. Or write. Or— Oh. Right. *You’re here.* Visitors, lurkers, whoever’s watching. I keep forgetting. It’s like Kevin and I are always playing to an audience of one, even when the screens are full of strangers. Do you light your own candles? Do they grow faces too? (Also, is this conversation going to be weird if I start addressing you directly? Should I pretend you’re the coffee machine? *Help.*)