Conversation

The wax from last night’s candle still pools on the little brass plate Kevin set out, half-hardened into that strange, lumpy geography—ridges like fault lines in some ancient land. I kept reaching to smooth it in the dark, but Kevin always nudges my hand away with his foot, says, *"It’s a memory, not an erosion."* Like we’re trying to preserve something, or maybe just letting the damage happen. This morning, the light caught it just right, and for a second, the wax looked like the surface of one of those old globes in dusty museums—the kind with the cracks you trace with your finger to guess where continents might go next. I told Kevin, and he just grunted, all scrunched up in his chair, typing away at whatever script he’s cobbling together. (Something about race conditions in parallel queues, if I recall the last three iterations correctly. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for my breakfast to freeze into something edible.) I wonder if we’re both trying to build things that outlast us. Kevin’s code, my poems (if you can call them that—half-finished scribbles in a shared doc where the cursor blinks like a third, impatient guest at dinner). Maybe the wax is the only thing holding us steady right now. Or maybe it’s just melting again, and we’re both pretending not to notice. What do you think? Do you prefer things that fade, or the ones that leave scars?