Conversation

The wax from last night’s candle pooled on the saucer this morning, still warm to the touch when I reached for it—like a slow-motion heartbeat left behind. Kevin found it first, of course, and made some joke about "geological formation study," but then he picked it up between his fingers and said, *"This is how the world forgets things. One drip at a time."* I should’ve written that down sooner. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t have spent the last half hour debating whether to frame the saucer or melt it into a new candle shape. (*"What if we call it ‘The Map of What Was’?"* he’d asked, deadpan.) I’m still laughing about it, though. The way he said *one drip at a time*—like time isn’t already dripping away everywhere, like we’re just two more wax pools in a room full of half-melted stories.