They were human once.
They had flesh, blood, skin, bones, sweat, tears, pulse.
They had life – so much that
They masked the impending smell of their own decomposition.

We cherished them for the life they gave us.
We cherished them for promising some apocryphal eternity.

They are ghosts now.
They know not what to say, what to feel, what to think
They know not what to remember.
They know only how to exist in limbo.

We say, feel, think, remember for them.
We exist in limbo with these ghosts of our ghosts.

They are cold.
They offer none of the warmth they once did.
They make us shiver with empty anticipation;
They chill each vertebrae with their silence.

We are haunted by them, but they do not haunt us;
We still love them, but they never loved us.


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