But he did die that morning
At 32 years old.
One year younger than our Lord, Jesus Christ.

The modern apostles laid oily hands on his head
To pass on the power of the Holy Ghost
Leaving only phantoms to wander in his hair
A fog of questions that journeyed to his lips
How does it feel, knowing that you will be forgotten?
How does it feel, knowing that you were never known?
It was enough.

He crawled into the tomb
Waiting for the shivers of ending
Disappearing instead into a light
It came from behind him, through the blinds of his window.
He became me, watching the steady stripes of morning
Emerging on the beige wall of his bedroom.
The ritual of passing is done. And he is dead. 
There is no resurrection.

-	R.R. Tavárez 

*Photo by @trude_jonsson_stangel.