Is this writing indicative of madness? Am I hopeless?

Note: I've never been a true 'romantik' and yet there has always lurked inside me the desire to know another through intimacy… This has never really happened in the way I have idealized it, and so, I imagined this dialogue between two people to help try and come to terms with these feelings, if only briefly….

Charles: Let us go to bed – for I am weary and need sleep and your body close to mine is the only thing that gives me good rest.

Deborah (to herself): So we'll sleep until morning if the night permits,
if Winter does not penetrate the sheets we share
with cold immuring. But that does not mean
that I will love you when the day breaks.
The sun's light can be raw, sometimes,
and when it breaks upon my eyes and penetrates
through my skin, it may boil and confuse
the things inside me, confound them to patterns new.

Should I be blamed for this? Nature and I -
we have a pact of sorts. I flow and ebb according,
sometimes, to her wishes and vaunts of fancy.
I am tractable, pliant; my days are as lifetimes.
The beauty of my body (if beauty indeed there be)
and the love in my heart (if such passions can so be called)
abides here awhile with you – but the night drones
letting rest what was past, cooling the earth
upon which tomorrow lights fires anew.