A body on a timer, a system recuperating, my being is accustomed to a recent routine.

For a split second, my mind thinks of a watch.

Only to find a minute itch, infinitesimal.

Every hour, almost like clock-work, I check my wrist.

My days go by slower, the constant of my unease, unappealing.

I become weak to the passage of my universe.

For nights I awake to the same discomfort.

A monthly session to psychiatry, she gives me a timepiece.

Recent years have proven slow, yet somehow recording grounds it.

I’ve finally decoded my inner workings, the nerves move into place.

Imaginary centurions entrap my worries, the adrenaline fades.

My millennium concludes.