I stepped on them daily,

wondering why they sunk

under commuter weight.

Then one night after

candlelight and Fitzgeralds

we swept out of speakeasy dark

and stepped on them together

in dress shoes and black boots,

arms linked through the winter,

and I asked if you knew what they were.

​

You explained that our footsteps

on each springy triangle

made our bodies powerhouses,

kinetic energy stored in lights

that would illuminate the path

to our kiss in a few moments’ time

when I led you to sit on the cold edge

of the empty fountain’s lips.

After, you shivered as we stood

back up and I pulled your beanie

onto your head to keep you warm.

​

When I tread the tiles now,

I wonder if our evening

runs through it still, long after

we have walked any path together,

saved in this stretch of sidewalk,

pushing up against me each day

that I push down.