I am full and beautiful thus.
Full, I am purpose attained,
remembered not for what I am,
but by what I contain,
the service I provide.

I will not be discarded.

I am used, half gone now and somber.
Used, I am shaped by the void left behind,
thought of not for what I provide,
but for how little of me remains,
lingering on the coming regret.

I will not last long.

I am empty and bitter of the absence.
Empty, I am fragile with sharp secrets,
avoided not for the squandered potential,
but the risk inherent in things that shatter,
broken even when intact.

I will hold your reflection, still.