Hand in hand we haunt the museum,
visiting Manet, Degas, Gauguin;
wandering from paintings to sculpture;
giggling like embarrassed adolescents
at the nudes poised on pedestals.

“Don’t put me on a pedestal,” you said.
“I won’t,” I responded.
“Pedestals are for perfection,” you added,
“and I’m not perfect.”

“No one is perfect,” I replied. “Until
someone loves them.”

Hmm, I think maybe I’ll put you
up on that pedestal after all.

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