Why do we do this to ourselves?

Tonight,
I will make my way to you
        again.

All night we will talk &
drink wine, while outside
twilight will silently deny
colour to the flowers of your garden.

Inside, we’ll remain ignorant
of all this save
for some ineffable sense of
        absence,

as we talk & laugh.
drink wine & then,
                perhaps,
we’ll fuck.

It’ll be fun
but through it all,
a loneliness will prevail:

The distance between us
is too vast to measure, & we
know that it won’t last forever.

Why do we do this to each other?