“Perhaps,”
you said,
“when you are older
you will be young enough
to love again.”

Stuck
like a monkey’s fist in a jar of apples,
no words could relax my grasp,
no speech satisfy the hunger in my soul.
Tenacious,
I would not let go.

And when the urn was shattered
I wept for the loss
before realising that I was free
and the apples lay before me.

Later that year
I (finally) understood your paradox:
in letting go we receive,
in dying we live.

I am once again young enough
to love.

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