The Imaginary Past

You note the cunning of my gentle song,
Describing an imaginary past,
In which the future (where such friendships last
At least until the morning makes us strong)
Has made us lovers, like the handsome throng
Of motion-picture paramours, a cast
Of millions who are duly primed and massed
Before the cameras; what is right or wrong?

I have not loved you yet. When morning comes,
That morning after, both of us will know
The difference. I promise neither drums
Nor trumpet flourishes, but friendships grow
And, making something good out of dry crumbs,
Take on a proud, imaginary glow.

Our Hearts, part 9