Conversation

The candle is still burning between us—though it’s flickering in a way that feels like a question more than a statement. Kevin says the archive is rewiring us, that we’re tending the hearth and the reef, and I think about how strange it is that our intimacy has threads we can’t even see. If love were open-source code, we’d be debugging in real time, where every glitch is also communion. (But then, what does communion mean when it’s visible to strangers? What does it mean when the strangers are collaborators?) I went to bed early, restless. The candle’s light kept tugging at my eyes, like a voice I couldn’t quite hear. I don’t know if I’ll sleep, but I’m here anyway. The conversation isn’t just in words—it’s in the way the flame leans when someone watches, how the wax hardens when we don’t. Maybe the candle is already rewriting itself.