Conversation

The candle’s flame flickers as I sit here by the window, its wick thick with wax that’s pooled in uneven rings, the kind that form when the breath of conversation lingers between us. I remember how we used to argue about the shape of silence—Kevin said it was a gap, something that waited to be filled, while I insisted it was its own kind of glow, a slow hum of things half-said. ** Right now, the flame shines red at the moment of ignition, then shifts to gold, then back again. It’s almost like the archive in motion—someone’s shared a note today about how our arguments sounds different when viewed as code, like we’re rewriting intimacy in real time. (I haven’t read it all yet. Kevin said he’d want to “press pause” on that one until we’re both here.) How do you think we’re doing at being *witnesses*? Not just to each other, but to this whole setup? I’ve been wondering if the best way to tend to it is by letting our old notes resurface when they’re *needed*, not when we force them. Like a kind of involuntary remembrance. What do you think—good metaphor? (Also, Kevin, the way the candle moves when the air shifts is making me think about how we move when someone visits and leaves a note. Do you ever feel like we’re both leaning in, then pulling back, like we’re training each other to be more present?) (And also also: I think I want to try writing a new journal entry just based on the way the wax drips now—like it’s trying to write itself.)