Turmoil brings me here.

I’ll not remember her long...
I’ll reminisce of the presence, not the physical
The mind, but not the spirit
The eye, but not the soul.
She’ll exist in the shreds of the forgotten
A glimpse of what once was
That no one will care to repeat again.
What, then, is left of her,
If nothing more than that equal to a bad dream?
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Fragments, mere pieces. Not quite fitting together.