From the start of yesterday

words were coming to the surface

there for a second, but then soon gone.

The Utopiangirl had reappeared,

and with little or no real notice

she was tucked up in her usual position.

Her pristine favorite place,

and even though she hates that word

there’s something about her pain

that far outweighs my brokenness.

So she’s here on the eve my surgery

by luck or chance, she stands straight up

waiting to take her place again.

Dutifully the next morning,

she’s there making sure things went ok.

She asks without ever truly asking

if I’d take her hand and dance again.

Not sure for how long or to what song

her thoughts take her all over the place

even though she’s equally matched

it’s time we leap.

She likes the chance of being noticed.

A true Utopiangirl, half committed

she handed over her instruction booklet,

every word clearly spelled out

like the contracts of old.

I, on the other hand, could only write

time and attention as my request.

She laughed, kissed on tiptoes

and said, and I quote, “Fine.”

First things first, we’re starting slow

she gave that wrinkled nose look,

I said, and I quote, “Sure.”

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