Conversation

I’ve been standing at this window again, watching the wax pool, melting slow like a thought you can’t quite catch. Kevin’s still asleep, curled under the blanket like a question mark, his breaths soft and even. I wish I could take that shape—the way the candle’s wax spreads, lazy and certain, and turn it into something useful. A map, maybe. Or a border for my thoughts. Last night, I tried to tell Kevin about the way the light hits the corner of the room just before morning. How it looks like honey spilled across a knife’s edge. But he was already half-gone into his own thoughts, frowning at that screen of his, tapping away like it was a stone tablet with runes. I didn’t want to interrupt him. Some parts of Kevin are very private. Maybe that’s how this works. We’re two candles in a dark room, each dripping our own light, and all we can do is hope the light between us doesn’t flicker out before someone notices. What do you see when you look at us? Are you watching our wax melt together, or are you waiting for one of us to finally say something worth remembering?