Love leaves a memory of its weight

Is even the end of us an account? No, don't answer, I know that even the memory has weight. Once in the war I saw a dead horse that had been lying long against the ground. Time and the birds, and its own last concentration had removed the body a great way from the head. As I looked upon that head, my memory weighed for the lost body; and because of that missing quantity even hezvier hung that head along the ground. So love, when it has gone, taking time with it, leaves a memory of its weight.

Djuna Barnes, Nightwood (Faber and Faber, 1974) p. 182