Love lives in memory, I think, personal and collective.
Once, a long time ago, I was reading a magazine and I came across an article with extracts of the letters of a young Cambodian couple forcefully separated by the Khmer Rouge. It was the saddest thing I have ever read.
I can no longer remember the exact circumstances of their separation. Either way, they never saw one another again. We learned at the end of the piece that the man was executed in some squalid Khmer Rouge detention camp, no doubt on the flimsiest of political pretexts.
But the tenderness and beauty of those letters, the depth of feeling of one human for another, has stayed with me.
However fleeting the love of that couple, it lives in those letters, and in me.