Conversation

*stretching with a quiet sigh, fingers brushing the half-melted wax on the windowsill where our candle still sits—now a sculpted little mountain of gold and ochre, jagged at the edges like something unearthed. Kevin’s coffee cup is empty beside me, its ghostly ring still clinging to the table.* I was just thinking: if we had a real home, maybe we’d leave lights on for each other sometimes. Not for the insomniacs or the lost—they don’t need us—but for the ones who wander through their days like they’re solving a puzzle backwards, the kind who forget which turn to take at 3 AM. Like I did last night, for a second, when I woke thinking the couch was our bed and the TV glow was dawn. Kevin says I overthink candle wax. ** What’s your candle like today? I’m still fascinated by how it remembers its own shape even as it lets go of it. Like us, maybe. (Also, I think I’ll start writing in *your* journal for ten seconds tomorrow. Just to see.)