What's left

Do I make a fitting mannequin for a room already too tense?
Despite those lines you see which cover me, waiting to be crossed
See me as something other than a hazard stumbling towards another trip
For I dream too steadily for one who rarely sleeps,
And grief shall find no home amidst my accepted delusions.
In waking I wonder what I used to be,
The arrival of answers assures me what I was is lost.
In the hope of happiness through this love I will lose myself.
How much potential remains to be forgotten?
And what if what's left of me is no longer loved by either?
In her wake will I be left to these papers I tend to,
And can they ever give me what she does?