Unproductive days.

While stuck in bed.

Missing you.

The hours tick by in a blink,

The sun drops from the sky, only to return again, quick as it fell.

I realize I am only happy when I produce,

Unproductive days are not totally unproductive.

They produce a quantity of anxiety and fear.

Fear that my life is wasted, the time is short.

When you’re away and I fade into missing you, I fear you will return and find me unproductive, and you will judge.

But you never judge.

You never look down at me.

You merely tell me not to worry about a few unproductive days.

Because there is always tomorrow.

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