You cannot be dead. You of all people cannot be dead. He refused to believe it. I watched as he helped you on your descent from the cross. I watched him run his hands all over your body, checking every wound, testing every inch of your flesh. At first I thought he was doing it out of love, but then I realised he was doing it for the blood. Bathed in your blood, he can be heralded as the new Messiah.
Thomas, you charlaton. You can never be what he was, to me or to anyone else. Run hom child, the Rapture is coming.
But now, this morning, I see the swan lights rising again.
I feel the soft black stars stirring inside me. I taste your tears again, but not only that. I taste your blood, your breath, your skin. I can feel your salt on my lips again. Your scent fills my throat and my fingers become like driftwood, weathered by an ocean of sorrow.
I feel you move within me and I remember lazy sundays, jasmine kisses, wallowing in pools in Florence.
I’m drowning in you, and no one else can see it.
This is your resurrection.
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