Who am I but not her?

The poem is a symphony of longing.

What is this ache to be held?
I collect these tiny pieces of love thrown my way,
even if it is trivial for the people who put it out without a second thought.
I cradle it in my aching arms like dried flowers kissed between the pages of an old book.

Yet I see the way her eyes soften when she looks at the one she loves:
his gentle hands holding her as if the world is burning around them, yet she is content to go out in his arms;
his lips home to her forehead, right where they belong.
She would hold him when he came crashing down to her chest, his safety net.

When was I never enough?
I am the blurry background of a TV show when they focus the limelight on the main character,
even though it is my show. A voice as quiet as the morning light seeping through the curtains.
I disappear into the background in a place that focuses on the warmth of the sun with eyes closed.

But oh, how she lights up the room, like a lighthouse for the sailor on the sea:
drowning, but hopeful as he hears her melodious voice beckoning to her, so naturally drawn.
Even on days when she wanted to be the quietest moon, he held her like the sun
that died to darkness every night for the moon to shine the brightest among the stars.

Where did I go wrong?
I hold it all in, the terror and the hope, even as I pour myself into others,
sometimes it feels like there is nothing left of me to give—and prove that I deserve it too:
to be someone's favorite book, rather than a page written, scratched, and crumbled out by the bin.

Yet she was the art, poem, and painting, too, for all the ways he loved her:
so soft, so slow, so gentle as the stream flowing through the quiet forest.
He braids her hair, telling her how beautiful she is, while her hair tangles in his fingers
just like their souls, tying themselves together in every lifetime to come.

Why didn't I deserve softness?
I watched it happen all around me: fall in and out of love, and cry about it,
while I got to only cry and write poems about it, like
bleeding out without knowing where I was wounded.

But I see her leaning against a soft shoulder, strong for her:
the way she curled up against his chest when it got hard to breathe;
being her breath, her ground to land, her cold side of the pillow to rest her weary soul,
while his mellow murmurs of sweet nothings lull her to sleep.

Who am I but not her?
I watch everyone else get the love I crave deep in my bones,
but I have convinced myself I don't want it. But God, do I need it.
I need to be held, to be craved, to be desired, to be ached for—just as her.