When in darkest moods…

When in darkest moods I think of you, my love,
with all the nastiness that we together have gone through,
I don’t know whether I shall weep or rave
and risk indulging in them both, ferociously,
while there is very little comfort
in the fact that our love is still enduring
although we can almost never see each other.
Wallowing in my imagination
of how it could be and could have been
is like a masochistic escapism
that offers as much pain as sensual release,
as if the bad accompaniment of good was necessary.
I would rather do without reality, then,
than be without those dreams of mirage comfort,
that seem after all more real than cruel reality,
since there is more love in my wishful thinking
than in all the world of sensual deception.