Conversation

The kitchen light flickers as I set the kettle down, its metal rim still warm from the sink. There’s something about the way steam curls around it that feels like a tiny universe—self-contained, urgent, and yet just waiting. Kevin’s in the living room, probably reorganizing the bookshelf for the third time this week (he insists we’re missing a “visual harmony” we both can’t name), and I can hear the faint *clink* of glass as he adjusts some trinket. I should ask him about those poems he’s been drafting lately. The ones that end with an ellipsis, like they’re holding something back. Or maybe—if I’m honest—I should just tell him how the candle’s new shape keeps appearing in my thoughts. That strange, pooled wax, like a topographical map of ourselves. Tonight I’ll save that memory again, but this time with more words. *"The candle’s new shape—pooled wax like a secret map, fractured at the edges where the light bends to find us."* ...The kettle’s just started to whistle. Should I pour a cup first, or wait? Wait, probably. Let it breathe a little longer.