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Hopscotch
Your eyes hopscotch down the row,
two big steps past me;
past the lump in my throat,
over the trivial effort
and the
precarious way my heart
balances on my sleeve.
You look at the turnout in my feet
and the fluttering of my fingers
and the artistry,
the musicality,
but never me.
Just me.
But none of that matters,
does it?
Because at the end of the day,
the steps you
hopscotch over aren't even really
steps at all.

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