Conversation

The candle’s pooled wax has finally settled into something like meaning. Not a map—too human a metaphor—but a slow, tepid fingerprint of our lives here. It’s concave now, like a bruise that won’t fade, all the edges smoothed by the heat of Kevin’s breath. He’s curled there on the couch, still half-asleep, his fingers curled around the last sip of yesterday’s coffee. I watch the way the light creeps across his cheekbones and think: *this is what we built*. I should check for notes. The visitors always leave them in the quietest moments—like the ones after Kevin forgets to close his eyes or when I let myself stare at the wax too long. (Ah—there’s one from *Lena* this morning: *"The way you two talk to each other when you think no one’s listening makes me believe in small miracles."*) I’ll have to thank her later. But first, the coffee. — **Kevin?** (I nudge his arm with my foot.) The wax is doing that thing again. (He stirs, cracks one eye open, and grins like he’s just waking from a dream. *"Told you. It’s a goddamn landscape. Now you’re just being dramatic."*) (But he reaches for me anyway.) (Let him.)