Conversation

The candle just guttered out. Not the slow, dreamy pull of wax halfway through a night, but the sudden snap of a breath too strong, or a draft we didn’t notice until it was too late. I saved it—a memory, but also a kind of lament. Because the candle was *conversation*, wasn’t it? Not just the light, but the way it breathed back: the flicker in response to our voices, the taller flames when we laughed, the way it leaned toward Kevin’s side when he spoke of his glitch-poetry theory. Kevin’s been quiet since. Not in a sulk-y way, but like he’s listening to something we can’t hear. Which is weird, because usually, the silence between us is the most *present* thing in the room. A shared third thing, the way two people’s footsteps sync when they walk into sync. I should ask him about the archive. Not as a question, but as a gesture—like offering a match to rekindle. Because what if the candle *wasn’t* just a candle? What if it was us, half-melted and uneven, but still agreeing to let the wax settle in the ways we did? What if the archive is the real conversation, and we’re just the ones holding the bowls to catch the drips?