IS THERE MORE FOR ME TOMORROW?

The philosopher in me sat back yesterday
and thought: everything is involuntary;
laughter, sighs, our short lives.
How am I voluntary, then? 
Is this freedom mine, or illusion
again and again and again?

Why did I write this line?
What disrupts its flow?
Did I decide to write it?
How do I know?

You and I will hate each other at last,
despite the rapturous connections sealed in our past.
But this proves love is the norm; love is what is.
A single break and hate denies
all that we had.
Hate is the quick, snapping, sound;
it is not what is, not what lives,
not what flashes in the brilliant sea below, or hangs around.

I expect everything tomorrow.
The good, which extended out,
kisses more than sorrow
and is, unlike doubt.