Interim, by Benjamin P. Hawkins

As I count the minutes.

"A few more couldn't hurt."

I say.

As I swallow them like pills.

Gorging myself as if I'd never had a moment to think or process.

As if I'd never been sick and refuse to become it.

As if I'd never have slept before and never wanted to.

"Just a couple more, and then..."

I could never and would never finish that sentence. Not in truth anyways.

The interim is addictive as it is rare.

Like opioids you begin to feel less, when the interim isn't there.

I choose to stay in the interim.

Or so I think.

"But, just one more..."

I say in my mind.

As my mouth has gone slack and my arms have grown weak.

When will the last pill be taken?

"After the next."

I whisper.

When will I leave?

"After some more."

I exclaim.

I am in the interim.

I will leave soon.

"Right after...another...two bottles of course."