On days when we’d go to the galleries,
I chose my shoes based on their sound
against the concrete or hardwood floors.
Elegant but hushed, I wanted the day’s rhythm
punctuated by our companionate shuffle,
overlaid by the chatter of the patrons
and our cheeky side remarks. Spoken
in low tones during the intersection
of our orbits, we’d reveal which pictures
we would hang in our homes,
ones that left us besotted, and those
we just couldn’t care less about—
a statement typically followed by a nod
and an exit into the next exhibition room.
We spent time together elsewhere too
but, in the galleries, our edges became soft—
a lifting only possible with proximity,
like birds finding the upwash,
my feet barely brushing the floor.