Admetus swallowed the sun.
His throat was raw, tongue heavy with words.
Words of praise, of worship,
but the sun refuted him.
His light was dimmed,
hidden by dirt and muck, things he chose.
He seemed more human than God,
and Admetus loved him for it.
Still, the sun shows affection by shining brightly.
He glinted off coins, off crown, off sparkling seas.
He crested the horizon, casting shadows.
He shone on Admetus,
illuminating,
reflecting the deep bronze of his skin,
the curve of his spine,
the length of his fingers,
the line of his waist,
the tip of his tongue as it passed his lips,
the shadow of hair on his jaw,
the ridge of his calf.
He seemed more God than human,
and the sun loved him for it.
He fought for Admetus,
gave him all he wanted,
and took what he too desired.
But still, the sun is eternal.
Man is finite.
The sun shone on Admetus for as long as he could,
longer than he should have,
stealing back time from the grasp of silver scissors.
But it was not enough.
And when Admetus’ time came,
the sun was dim.
The twilight fell upon the world,
and the darkness seemed to last for an eternity,
though it is not told in story or verse.
Admetus swallowed the sun,
his body warm,
his eyes bright,
his fingers spread.
And then the sun swallowed him whole.
