A query

The strife leads no solitude 
and here I'm thinking yet again 
Conscience screams of my mistakes
and i keep hearing 'What am I to you?'

My mouth though slightly agape
no sound comes off it
A lengthy speech I had in mind
but now it projects a faulty ring
I reach out to find emptiness 
only the air mush by your scent
Inhaling those remains 
I shout 'Now what do I do?'
but I keep hearing 'What am I to you?'

Oh what exactly are you to me?
What exactly?
I swear I got no words
I got no answer, I don’t know why 
I don’t even know myself. Who am I?