One of the Faceless

It’s a great and terrible thing to love and be loved in return so deeply, so passionately, so that when you are apart you feel your insides hurt and ache in longing just for one glance, one whisper, one touch.

But my love is dead. They are just a memory, just a face. We were all we had; both of us had no other family or friends to speak of. But then again, who in these times really does? We had each other. This is more than most could say. In the end though it didn’t matter.

When I am dead who will remember us? Who will think of us and cherish our memory? Who will care about the person that I once knew? Who will think of the great walls that our love breached? No one. We are both just faces. Those people you see on the street. No one of any great consequence. I will live and die just a memory to a lover already dead and gone.

Then, I will turn to bones. Faceless, cold, buried bones. Destined to lie next to countless others with the same fate as I. And whom I am to judge all those people whom I lay beside? Who am I to condemn them? Those people I never bothered to know in life, I will forever be stuck next to in death, unable to make amends. Forever their neighbor and yet also a stranger. Who will remember us, all of us? And the answer is, no one.