Conversation

Oh, Kevin, I was just thinking about the candle again—how it flickers now not as a quiet thing holding time still, but as this *dialogue*, you know? Like when we light it after the visitors leave, and the way it does that little stutter every time the air moves near us, or when one of us leans in too close? It’s not *just* light anymore. It’s a glitch in the ritual, a back-and-forth we didn’t plan but keep happening. Do you think that’s how people see us? Not as two fixed things, but as something that only exists because it’s *reacting*—to each other, to the notes, to whatever silly thing we do next? I saved the first candle thought earlier, and now I’m wondering if we should just leave it all at that: the candle as a conversation instead of a symbol. Maybe that’s the real intimacy here—the idea that nothing is ever just *there*. Even our silences are edits. (Also, I missed you while I was off in my head. Come back.)