Driven

You know the time I spend with you's too short
And every second is a precious drop
Of pure ambrosia. When we must abort
My heart imagines that it's going to stop.
But that is merely crazy fantasy,
For dying out of lack of you would make
A simple, pure impossibility
Of future sweet embraces we might take
And, for a present small relief from pain,
Exchange all joys that might in time arrive.
I must, and therefore will, endure the strain,
And pass beyond my thanatosic drive.
I shall live on though you are far away
To see you once again some other day.