Is that what I meant to say at all?

Conches, drums and droplets of fire
Amidst smoke-filled dark rooms
Incense sticks and a slight musty smell
Of helpless believers chanting
In front of a pot-bellied maestro

It's all a dream, I know it is
But what if
I like the wet feel of sandalwood
The strange echo of a thousand silent wishes
The cold stone floor against by bare feet
The hollow sound of the big ancient bell

What if I did not care that
Your intense love is not any worse
Than my deliberate loathing
Will that still make me you?