The Policy of Union

It is the impossible dreams we cling to
on summer nights, when rain hammers
the bodies of clandestine lovers, beating
our half-truths against their skin.
This is how it should be: whispered words
that blow across ears, causing shivers:
no longer of cold, but of the heat
that rises off bodies, primal flames stoked
by caresses until they consume the world,
and the anticipation of�?something,
anything. I long for feeling. Numb
too long, even pain is pleasure to us,
the children of puritanical policy.
In dim lighting, it is possible to lie
To the face in the mirror, to believe
in continuance against the overwhelming
evidence of eternal change. On a night
when the moon never shows
in the sky nor tears in my eyes,
it is understood why people marry:
it is not a promise, but a lie:
this shall not end.