Remember when I used to write poetry?

I seriously used to all the time, and then someone, I'm pretty sure, made me think I wasn't good at it. So I stopped. But,using this template, I wrote something that is pretty good. Things are inside of me, and sometimes I can express them well with words.
Assignment: use the template of Billy Collins'  "Litany" and create your own poem about your relationship with someone. It was an exercise in metaphors.
Original:

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

Billy Collins

and here is my version:

“Litany” Redone

You are the fire and the ashes

 The rose and the thorns.

You are the kite floating

And the clouds changing shape.

You are the unopened mail

And the spoiled fruit in the basket.

However, you are not the lit up porch light,

The fire in the hearth,

Or the dinner on the table,

 And you are certainly not the memory foam mattress.

There is just no way you are the memory foam mattress.

It is possible you are the actor on stage,

Maybe even the iceberg in the ocean.

But you are not even close

To being the glove on my hand.

And a quick look in the mirror will show

That you are neither the sand beneath my toes

Nor the breeze through my hair.

You might find it shocking to hear,

Speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

That I am the wildflowers in bloom.

I also happen to be the front porch swing,

The cup of coffee,

And the cream.

I am also the beach at sunset,

And the book with its page turned down,

But don’t worry, I am not the fire and the ashes.

You are still the fire and the ashes.

You will always be the fire and the ashes,

Not to mention the rose and—somehow—

The thorns.