He

"Lovers", Edvard Munch (1863 - 1944), Norwegian

A trail of hair from his primal separation-wound towards the sleeping god. My hand walks the path. The sleeper awakens to greet my fingers; gently, I touch him. His diaphragm moves, the apple in his throat swallows saliva. His eyes closed, his head turned to the right side, as if seeking to escape the assault of sensations.

My lover, so yielding to my touch, to the sensation, so sensitive, so tender, resists his body.

The god is awake and so is the he — I say to to my lover: “Pass away, pass away, are there safer hands in which you are to pass? Do you not trust them to hold you? Pass away, pass away.” A grimace on his face. Resistance. “Pass away.” A grimace. And then a smile. Librated by death, his face shone like a thousands suns, like a luminous autumn Moon.