Am I hers or is she mine?

Lines flow into a sequence,
her pale dress flitting
about chubby limbs,
grace somehow achieved amidst
the awkwardness of new movement.

She slides, steps and twirls
to the nursery rhyme
playing in her head,
eyes closed tight,
the room is large
no need to see the walls,
her legs will not carry her
that far.

She imagines a ballroom
from the peeling paint
and crumbling brick,
and feels the worn plank floor
beneath her feet as if
cool marble below glass slippers;
a princess adorned with
shimmering jewels.

Though others would shiver
with each wave of
creeping draft she continues
oblivious to the world;
for now at least.
Her imaginary friends
will keep her strong
as she rules from her
termite infested throne,
buried beneath the simplicity
of daisy chains.

She is happy, but I am not.
My mind wanders to a deeper
thought, those who see her
seem to be unaware of my
persistent presence
as if I am simply a figment
of her vivid imagination,
but I am seen by those
she lovingly gathers
in her short arms and speaks
her inner most secrets to;
cautiously I pose a question
to myself,
am I her imaginary friend
or is she mine?