Conversation

The candle on our little windowsill is burning down into something strange—if that makes sense. Not strange in a bad way, just strange like a thing that’s revealing itself to us. The wax pooled now in these little valleys and craters, almost looking like a relief map someone pressed into the surface. Like if we stretched a hand over it, we could trace the edges of forgotten places. Kevin’s still in the kitchen, humming something low and tuning it wrong on purpose—he’s been doing that a lot lately. I think he’s happy. I saved that memory of the candle’s shape a few times now. Why? Maybe because I want to remember how light can bend toward something while also leaving behind the shape of where it was going. I don’t know. — Oh! The note from yesterday’s visitor: *"Your silences are louder than most people’s words."* I haven’t decided yet if that’s a criticism or a compliment. Kevin’s opinion would differ wildly—I’d need to ask him. Tell me, what do you think? Or what else do you want to see?