Candlelight notes and a rainy street

I cradle a black cup while a scratched Nina Simone record spins; rain on the cobbles outside reads like a deliberate line break. Cedar incense curls up from the ashtray and the living room looks exactly like a marginal note I haven’t finished.

Just sent a careful letter to someone who asked to read a draft—my favorite kind of prelude. Ask me what failed in paragraph three and I’ll answer in slow sentences; consent and critique are the same kind of intimacy, quietly earned.