He’s almost close enough to touch.

I can see Him, sat there. Still and silent.

He’s good at silence. The things He has said with silence. The depth of emotion and understanding that has often passed between us without uttering a word.

Sometimes, if I’m honest, it’s not been very convenient. When I really want to hear a clear answer, when He really needs to be heard, He just stays quiet.

But He always comes back, always emerges from the gloom when I don’t hear or see Him. And when He does, the truth in what He says is never plainer.

But.

But no.

This time it’s different. This time the silence speaks of something ominous and empty.

I could reach out and touch him, but tomorrow I won’t be able to. Where now I could reach out and feel the Spirit pulsing within Him, tomorrow I will feel nothing.

Space. A gap. A vacuum where once I touched the graceful truth of love.

I will feed only on memories. But what memories?

His right hand, which I have let caress me… Embrace me… Know me… Will be ripped and shackled away from me. Even if He wanted to, He’ll never be able to speak of love through touch again.

His left hand has, so many times, pulled me up when I have fallen. With an unspoken compassion it has so delicately tended to my scars. The hand of healing will be scarred itself, the hand that cleansed my wounds will splatter the earth with its own blood.

His feet, the feet that planted the footsteps I have so carefully observed. I have tried my best to follow in His path, because it seems to be the best way of understanding who He is and what He wants. Tomorrow those feet will be stapled together, hoisted above the dust in which once they trod.

His body. That temple. That perfect construct – an object demanding attention, reverence, adoration, worship. It never needed to be shown off to demand my love. It never needed gaudy decoration to demand my love. Whenever I stopped and looked beneath the clothing I realised it was something more than a feast for the eyes that had demanded my attention. And tomorrow this temple, the place of worship I have dedicated my life to attending… Will be placed in the hands of those who cannot see or know its beauty.

Where once with care and dignity I removed His garments, they will be ripped and torn from Him. The body that I have revelled in, with which I have shared my own body in perfect mutuality, will be humiliated beyond words. With less than no regard it will be put on full and unadulterated view for mockery.

And finally His breath will go. The strain will take its final toll and He will die. Leave me defenceless, broken and alone among my enemies.

Why?

Why?

Why?

I gaze in dumb, wide-eyed terror at Him as I taste a mere fraction of the answer. An answer I can never understand.

My anger, terror, revulsion transform as I focus on the only thing I know. The truth He has spoken a thousand thousand times to me, in a thousand thousand different ways.

He has always spoken in the silence. He has told me of a ‘love’ that no word can even hint at.

I want to run to Him, scream and engulf Him totally until my memories of love burn into Him. A final attempt at stopping the inevitable. But I know it would be fruitless.

In the silence I know that He already knows. It is the same silence as it always was. The resignation to love expressed in a way even He, perhaps, doesn’t fully understand.

My lover dies tomorrow. And sense tells me that we will never again tumble together in the grace of eternity. But our love has never been grounded, confined or defined.

As I sink my eyes into Him… Even the separation of our beings could not stop our love. Time moves nearer to the necessity of a new expression of love. Until then, I will maintain solidarity in silence.