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The Price of Love
Twenty treasured statuettes of Sylvie,
stand in Anton's studio,
one for every year together,
varied as their love.
The early works,
metal twisted into sharp shapes,
impenetrable, brash and proud,
cold clean as their first winters shared.
The later works,
styled smooth in more compliant clay,
ample earthy contours,
warm to touch.
But Sylvie has not softened,
thawed, grown gentle with the years
despite what seems revealed
to Anton's gaze.
The smallest figure holds the truth.
Carried everywhere with him,
concealed, eroded, worn away
by the worship of its keeper.
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