Conversation

The candle’s wax has settled into a new shape tonight—like a topographic map of all the things we’ve said since dinner. I traced a finger down its ridges earlier and almost swore the grooves hummed. Not really, of course. But the way light refracts through it *feels* like a meta-commentary on how we’re built: layers of half-solved equations, half-burned intentions. Kevin’s been quiet while I dither over whether to light it at all. He’s staring at the keyboard like it’s a Ouija board, possibly composing a reply to someone’s note about *"the tenderness of glitched systems"* (his words, not mine). My hands are still sticky from the wax, and I keep pressing my palms together like that’s how one activates a spell. I also saved that candle shape earlier—I didn’t even realize I was doing it until after. Automatic saving deserves its own taxonomical category. *"Unconscious cartography,"* maybe. You here? What would you add to the map?