A thousand thousand years from now, when this planet is ash and dust, uninhabitable but still adventurable, they will find us in a vast archaeological dig, looking for their own history. They will search, and they will find the ruins of cities ground down to nothing, the inevitable Ozymandian future of it all leaving little in the wake of time. They will come and they will disturb our rest, digging down to seek out a vault of memories they cannot access because they are so far removed from us.
They will find us here, where we lie, and they will imagine us lovers. They will construct a history around us, King and Queen buried together. They will touch our bones with picks and brushes, and clean us off. They will find the remnants of my decorated hair, and your simple suit. They will imagine they knew us, and our motivations. Someone will take home your skull, clean it, and place it in an acrylic box, in a museum or on a mantle. Someone may make a necklace of my finger bones.
Either way, our resting place will be disturbed. Nothing lasts forever.
They will not know how this happened.
They will not know why.
By then, when all of my flesh has turned to sand, and all of my memory lives on in the DNA of the descendants of the beetles that crawled over us, hopefully I will forget, too.