On this cold floor,
I am nothing but your interpretation.
In this bed,
I am but a canvas for you to work on.
I am not amused by this,
but a muse by nature.
A force of art.
A possible goddess if you allow it.

On this Cold morning,
you are nothing but my interpretation.
In this bed,
you are but a means to keep me warm.
You are not amused by me,
but confused by nature.
A body for me to lay on.
A possible future if I allow it.

But today,
On this cold floor,
I am everything.
Everything but obscure.