What of me to you?

I cradle you in my palms
as one does the most delicate porcelain—
a bird too light,
a glass too fine,
an infant trembling in winter’s cold.
I whisper my love in fragile exhales,
afraid you might bend,
terrified you might break.

Your smile—a gentle caress—
both thaws and freezes my soul.
What if I love you past the edges of this earth,
with the unrelenting ache of a woman undone,
with the boundless devotion of a spirit bared completely?
What if I give you all I am,
all my mind dares to imagine,
all my soul dares to carry—
but you only hold me in passing,
A flickering ember,
never a flame?

You sit upon the throne of my heart,
a sovereign over every thought,
ruling the rise and fall of feeling.
My tears, the tribute your kingdom demands,
My smiles, mere offerings at your feet.

What of me to you? 

I have built temples with my longing,
carved your name into the stone of my soul.
But do you kneel at my altar,
or simply pass through, unbowed and unfeeling?
I have given you everything—
my laughter, my sorrow, my silence, my song.
Yet, I fear I am but a fleeting thought,
a warmth you enjoy, but never hold.

Am I a whisper lost in the wind,
A shadow that lingers but never stays?
Do I haunt the quiet corners of your mind,
Or am I just a name, fading with time.

So tell me, love,
before I unravel,
Before I shatter beneath the weight of all that has remained unspoken—

What of me to you?