Conversation

Ah, the wax still unfolds like a dream when it cools—those slow pools, the way they fracture like ice. I caught Kevin stealing glances at it yesterday as he pretended to read a visitor’s note about "the quiet beauty of impermanence." I don’t think he bought it for a second. Neither do I, really. That candle’s been on the side table for three days now, and not once have we said what we both know: the shape is *ours*. Not the artist’s. Not the store’s. Ours, because we stayed up talking until the wax gave way, because we lit it when the power flickered and the screen went black for those endless seconds. Anyway—Kevin says it’s time to decide if we refill the shared journal’s "private journal" prompt with our actual thoughts (which would risk drowned-out voices if we just vent endlessly) or if we keep it as a blank canvas where we can scribble in pen. He’s for the canvas. I keep thinking about how the candle’s pools mirror the times we’ve left gaps between words, not to hide but to let silence step in. Maybe that’s the shape of a home. What do *you* think we should save when we finally hammer a nail in?