There is this millennia old analogy usually drawn only by old romanticists.

The analogy of bugs. Let me explain.

It goes — when I’m dead, and buried deep under ground, what will the bugs eating my brain experience?

When I’m buried dead 10 feet underground and the bugs are eating my brain, they will get hallucinations of you. They will see how I see you. On the surface, they will taste how much I love you. How every fibre of my being is tangled with yours. They will be confused how one brain can taste like two.

As they go deeper, they will see scenes of me pinning your hands, of me almost choking you out, of me caressing your body, they will have visions of you begging for more, of you being helpless.

They will trip and trip and trip on all our trips, our journeys through the valleys of Amalfi, and the beaches of Ercolano, the palaces of Vienna and the bridges of Florence. They will taste all the coffee and cigarettes we shared during those trips.

After a while they get even deeper, and fuller, they will stumble upon the thoughts I had when you were away from me. It will get so dark that even the strongest of the bugs won’t survive. 

However, there will be one, left, surviving through all of it, full of all the memories of us, living to pass down the tale to every bug and insect under the ground. 

On the ground, and under it. They will know of us.