Laze

You ought to be here now, I'm pretty sure;
It would feel right, and that's enough for me.
Instead I have to awkwardly endure
The weeks of separation, when to be
Apart from you is boredom, emptiness,
A path to utter laze, where nothing matters,
And what should matter seems to matter less
Than nothing, where the void self-chatters
Chirping away unheard and unregarded.
The progress that I make when you are here
Is, when you leave, decisively retarded,
And all that once was bright seems dark and drear.
But soon I'll be with you, if not now, then,
And when I am, purpose will come again.